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PROPERTY  OF 

mmmi  of  dramatic  art 


THE  ART  OF  READING, 

BY 

ERNEST  LEG0UV6. 


yC^'^^'^-^^J 


THE 


Art  of  Reading 


BY 

ERNEST  LEGOUVfi, 


OF  THE  FRENCH  ACADEMY. 


i!nn$(aul  mid  Idltt^lrittetl  mil\  4^^m$  $ate$* 

BY 

EDWARD   ROTH. 

SECOND   EDITION. 


PH I  LAD  ELPH I  A: 

J.    B.    LIPPINCOTT    &    CO. 
1885. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1879,  W 

EDWARD    ROTH, 
in  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress  at  Washington. 


rRAMATIC  ART  DEPT 


TO  THE   STUDENTS 

OF  THE 

ECOLE  NORMALS   SUPERIEURE. 

Gentlemen : 

It  is  for  you  that  this  little  work  has  been  undertaken  ;  it  is 
to  you  it  should  be  dedicated  a7id  cojtjided. 

Pupils  to-day,  to-morrow  you  shall  be  teachers  ;  to-morrow 
shall  be  entrusted  to  your  watchful  care  generations  and  genera- 
tions of  the  rising  hope  of  France.  Countless  are  the  fninds 
that  an  idea  accepted  by  you  shall  pervade.  Assist  me^  then, 
in  spreading  what  you  have  assisted  in  producing.  To  have 
had  you  for  an  audie?ice  is  already  an  honor  and  a  pleasure  ; 
let  both  be  doubled  by  allowing  me  the  favor  of  saluting  ycu  as 
my  fellow-laborers. 

ERNEST  LEGOUVE. 

Pakis,  April,  1877. 


OHNl  /\A^y 


THE  TRANSLATOR'S  PREFACE. 


THIS  translation,  the  pleasant  employment  of  the  spare 
hours  afiforded  by  a  month's  sojourn  at  the  sea-side,  was 
ready  —  Notes  and  all  —  four  months  ago,  and  announced  for 
immediate  publication.  But  before  sending  it  irrevocably  to 
the  printer,  I  showed  the  work  to  a  critical  friend.  He  was 
only  half  pleased. 

"  Legouv^'s  chatty,  well-bred,  Parisian,  man  of  the  world  con- 
fidences on  such  a  subject  as  Reading,"  said  he,  "  to  the  intelli- 
gent community  cannot  help  proving  singularly  interesting ;  the 
translation— except,  perhaps,  in  the  ambitious  parts — will  find 
few  critics  ;  but  the  Notes  are  no  good." 

"  What 's  the  objection  ?  Are  they  not  reliable  ?  " 
"  They  may  be  gems  of  reliability  for  all  I  know — I  have  not 
tested  them.  Catch  me  reading  such  rubbish  as  Notes  on  more 
than  eighty  different  subjects  crowded  into  ten  pages !  Of 
what  possible  use  is  the  information  that  Lamartine  '  wrote 
Jocelyn  *  and  that  La  Fontaine  '  died  in  1695  '  ?  As  far  as  giv- 
ing us  a  living,  tangible  idea  of  either  of  these  men  is  con- 
cerned, you  might  as  well  say  that  one  of  them  did  not  write 
Don  Carlos,  and  that  the  other  was  not  slain  at  the  siege  of 
Magdeburg." 

"  What  do  you  want  ?  " 

"  Either  no  Notes  at  all  or  something  worth  reading." 

"  A  biographical  dictionary  ?    A  young  Encyclopedia  Brit- 


Viii  TRANSLATOR'S  PREFACE. 

"  Not  at  all.  There  should  be  as  little  as  possible  of  diction- 
ary or  dry  compilation  about  your  Notes.  They  should  be 
something  much  less  but  also  something  much  more.  Diction- 
ary articles  are  intended  for  reference  —  not  reading.  Read  a 
man's  biography  —  you  have  at  least  some  solid  idea  of  his 
reality.  Read  the  best  written  biographical  notice  —  it  is  no 
doubt  full  of  interesting  information,  but  your  conception  of 
the  man  himself  is  still  little  better  than  that  of  a  colorless  phan- 
tasm. Notes  of  any  kind  to  Legouve's  own  book,  if  intended 
for  his  exceedingly  intelligent  hearers,  or  even  for  the  majority 
of  his  French  readers,  would  be,  of  course,  absurd  from  their 
inutility.  The  names  that  he  is  continually  quoting  are  as  famil- 
iar to  the  ears  of  his  audience  as  the  names  of  their  own  fath- 
ers. They  give  pith,  point,  force,  light  to  his  remarks.  Every 
name  is  a  living,  breathing  essence  in  those  bright  young  minds. 
But  suppose  the  Normal  scholars  knew  as  little  about  Voltaire 
as  most  of  them  do  about  our  Brockden  Brown  or  Henry  Clay 
or  Longfellow  or  Forrest,  would  his  sentence  borrow  much 
light  from  a  note  hke  this  —  I  quote  the  first  I  meet  —  'Vol- 
taire, French  philosopher,  born  in  1694,  author  of  '  La 
Henriade,'  etc.,  etc.,  etc. ;  visited  England  and  Prussia,  resided 
at  Ferney,  died  in  1778  ?'  Would  that,  or  even  five  times  the 
quantity  of  the  same  kind  of  unimpeachable  information,  con- 
jure up  before  their  imaginations  the  faintest  picture  of  the 
witty,  sneering,  malicious,  restless,  selfish,  conscienceless  sprite 
that  kept  Europe  in  such  a  ferment  during  the  greater  half  of 
the  eighteenth  century  ?  And  if  it  would  not,  what  is  the  good 
of  such  a  note  ?" 

"  Not  much,  I  admit.  I  think  I  'm  beginning  to  understand 
you,  but — " 

"  But  if  you  want  people  to  relish  your  translation  as  his 
hearers  relished  Legouve's  lectures,  you  must  try  to  do  for  your 
audience  what  their  opportunities  had  already  done  for  his. 
You  must — ' 

"But—" 

"  I  know  your  objections.  Not  at  all.  No  enormous  volume 
of  more  than  eighty  elaborate  magazine  articles.     Something 


TRANSLATOR'S  PREFACE.  IX 

far  less  pretentious,  but  far  more  useful.  Magazine  article  con- 
structors generally  write  to  dazzle,  or  to  be  admired,  or  to  kill 
an  idle  hour;  the  inevitable  padding  is  therefore  venial,  if  not 
commendable.  But  by  avoiding  padding — in  your  case  an 
unpardonable  crime  —  v^^ithout  materially  sweUing  the  bulk  of 
/our  volume,  you  can,  by  judicious  treatment  of  each  subject, 
excite  in  your  reader's  mind  such  a  clear,  distinct,  and  perma- 
nent idea  of  its  real  nature  as  may  be  quite  sufficient  for  general 
purposes.  If  you  keep  this  constantly  in  view,  you  cannot  help 
giving  the  public  a  useful  book.  To  those  of  your  readers  who 
have  neither  the  time  nor  the  opportunity  of  searching  for  varied 
information,  you  will  afford  an  abundant  supply  in  a  compara- 
tively small  space,  nowhere  else  so  accessible.  And  even  the 
others,  who  do  not  really  need  your  notes  at  all,  may  not  be 
sorry  now  and  then  to  have  their  previous  knowledge  confirmed, 
their  fading  impressions  renewed,  their  wrong  notions  cor- 
rected or  combated,  and  their  disputed  points  perhaps  pre- 
sented in  a  new  light." 

My  plain-spoken  friend  had  to  say  a  great  deal  more  in  the 
same  strain  before  converting  me,  but  he  succeeded  at  last,  his 
clinching  argument  —  that  a  month  or  so  would  be  ample  time 
for  the  preparation  of  the  new  notes  —  deriving  considerable 
strength  from  the  recollection  of  what  little  time  and  trouble  the 
old  ones  had  cost  me. 

The  courteous  reader  has  the  result  before  him  in  the  Notes 
at  the  qnd  of  this  volume.  I  do  not  regret  my  industry,  but  I 
should  not  willingly  undertake  such  a  task  again.  Indeed, 
when  I  began  it,  I  had  but  a  faint  conception  of  its  peculiar 
difficulty.  Not  that  it  is  really  either  difficult  or  tiresome  to 
one  that  has  plenty  of  time  or  a  fine  library  at  his  disposal. 
But  the  same  inexorable  necessity  that  limited  my  available 
time  to  two  or  three  hours,  four  evenings  every  week,  com- 
pelled me  also  to  spend  this  time  in  my  own  room  and 
among  my  own  books,  my  collection  of  which  is  anything  but 
large,  varied,  or  expensive.  The  volumes  I  was  obliged  to  con- 
sult, outside  those  found  in  the  most  unpretending  of  libraries, 
did  not   amount  to   a  dozen    altogether.     All  this,  rendering 


INDEX  TO   NOTES. 


PAGE 

PAGE 

Academy,  the  French     ... 

^95 

LEGOuvfi,  J .  Baptists      

...   158 

Alizard      

...      229 

Lemercier *i. 

...        223 

Andrieux      

226 

LONGUEVILLB,  MaDAME  DE       ... 

...   324 

Ariosto      

...      3x6 

Maillart 

•••       333 

Assembly,  The    

234 

Malibran,  Madame 

...  203 

Baucher     

...      325 

Mars,  Mademoiselle 

...       173 

Beethoven   

357 

Massillon     

...  242 

Berryer     

200 

Merle 

...       326 

Bersot    

199 

Mole       

...  199 

BOSSUET         

...       234 

Moliere     

...       167 

BoUFPfi      

226 

Montaigne    

...  193 

BOUILLY        

...       172 

Monvel      

...       225 

BOURDALOUH 

247 

Musset,  Alfred  de 

...  275 

Brid'oison 

...       231 

Parseval  Grandmaison      ... 

...       203 

BUFFON     

270 

Pascal    

...  250 

College  de  France      

...       191 

Patin   

...       258 

Conservatoire    ...     

171 

PONSARD  

...  335 

Coquelin    

.     ...       231 

Potier        

..       224 

Corneille,  P 

163 

Provost  

...  172 

Corneille,  T 

.     ...       166 

Rachel      

...       174 

COROT         

364 

Racine    

...  159 

Cousin 

.     ...       320 

Regnard    

...       308 

D'AURE 

233 

Regnier 

...  173 

Delaunay 

.     ...       173 

Ristori       

...       190 

Delle  Sedie 

223 

ROLLE        

.     ...  326 

Diderot     

.     ...       205 

Rubens        

...       309 

DORIVAL 

207 

RUBINI      

.     ...  205 

DOUCET          

.     ...       198 

Sainte-Beuve 

...       249 

DUCHESNOIS 

159 

Saint  Simon 

.     ...  266 

DUFREZ           

.     ...       203 

Samson       ..      

...       172 

ECOLE  NORMALE 

367 

Sandeau 

.     ...  197 

Florian       

.     ...       314 

Sardou       

■•       334 

FORTOUL  

371 

Scribe     

.     ...  229 

Galileo      

.     ...       338 

Sevign^,  Madame  de    

...       192 

GiRARDIN           

191 

SORBONNE        

.     ...  195 

Got       

•     -       173 

Stockhausen    

...       204 

GUIZOT     

326 

Stradivarius       

.     ...  172 

Hugo,  Victor 

.     ...       296 

Talma 

201 

Janin       

325 

Talma,  Madame 

.     ...  223 

JOMINI 

•     -       232 

TheAtre-Franqais 

...       227 

Lafon      

231 

Universite    

.     ...  370 

Lafontaine      

.     ...       258 

Viennet      

...       198 

Lamartine    

278 

Voltaire       

.     ...  207 

LKGOuvfi,  Ernest    

.     ...       157 

PROPERiy  OF 
OEPilllTfJIENI  OF  DRAMATIC  ART 


PART   I. 


PRELIMINARY, 


xiii 


PROPERjy  OF 
DEPARTMEflT  Of  MUm  ART 

THE  ART  OF  READING. 


PART   I. 

CHAPTER  I. 

HOW  /  LEARNED    TO   READ. 

IN  the  great  matter  of  education  nothing  should  be 
beneath  our  notice,  but  the  question  I  am  now  going 
to  press  on  your  attention  derives  additional  importance 
from  the  fact  that  it  is  a  step  forward  in  the  march  of  our 
Public  Instruction  imperatively  demanded  and  not  yet 
even  attempted.  In  the  great  Republic  of  North  America 
reading  aloud  is  justly  considered  to  be  one  of  the  very 
first  elements  of  a  child's  education,  a  constituent  of  its 
basis  most  urgently  insisted  on.  Here,  in  France,  reading 
aloud  does  not  reach  even  the  sorry  dignity  of  a  diverting 
art ;  we  affect  to  regard  it  as  a  curiosity,  a  luxury,  often 
something  hardly  better  than  a  pretension.  This  silly 
prejudice  I  am  desirous  of  combating.  In  my  opinion, 
the  art  of  reading  should  not  only  be  a  social  acquisition 
worthy  of  high  estimation,  but  it  should  be  made  one  of 
the  most  indispensable  items  of  our  scholastic  curriculum. 
Towards  the  furtherance,  however  slight,  of  these  two 
niost  desirable  objects,  I  should  be  proud  and  happy  to 
contribute  the  best  effort  of  my  feeble  powers. 

9 


10  THE  ART  OF  READING. 

At  the  very  threshold  of  our  subject  we  are  met  by  the 
question,  Is  reading  an  art  at  all  ?  Many  doubt  it ;  som6 
deny  it.  My  own  opinion  I  give  without  the  slightest 
hesitation.  A  careful  study  of  the  question  for  at  least 
thirty  years,  aided  by  numberless  and  varied  experiences, 
has  convinced  me  that  it  is  an  art,  a  real  art,  but  as  diffi- 
cult as  it  is  real,  and  as  useful  as  it  is  difficult. 

This  opinion  of  mine  I  expect  to  demonstrate  didacti- 
cally ;  but,  though  didactic,  and  I  hope  convincing,  I  do 
not  intend  to  be  tiresome.  I  intend  to  demonstrate  my 
proposition  in  my  own  way.  An  abstraction,  I  have  al- 
ways considered,  gains  much  by  being  presented  in  living 
material  forms.  I  shall  therefore,  I  think,  convince  you, 
with  less  weariness  for  my  audience  and  greater  ease  for 
myself,  by  detailing,  from  the  very  beginning,  how  this 
conviction  of  mine  on  the  subject  has  been  brought  about. 

Kindly  imagine  me  then  for  awhile  to  be  one  of  your- 
selves relating  to  a  sympathizing  companion  some  of  his 
experiences  in  a  favorite  branch  of  study. 

Reading  aloud  was  always  a  favorite  passion  of  mine  — 
I  might  even  say  it  had  come  to  me  by  inheritance.  My 
father^  is  well  known  to  have  been  one  of  the  most  suc- 
cessful readers  of  his  day,  I  might  say  one  of  the  ablest 
professors  of  the  art  of  elocution  in  those  times.  When 
Mademoiselle  Duchesnois'^  made  her  debut,  the  play-bill 
ran,  "  Mlle  Duchesnois,  M.  LegouviS's  Pupil."  Does 
not  this  little  fact,  by  the  by,  show  that  elocution  and 
acting  were  in  those  times,  if  not  exactly  more  respected 
than  they  are  now,  held  at  least  in  more  general  estima- 
tion? A  member  of  the  French  Academy  of  to-day  would 
hardly  have  the  courage  to  associate  his  name  with  that  ot 
an  actress  on  a  play-bill.     As  for  me,  however,  nourished 

^  See  Notes  at  end  of  the  book. 


NOW  I  LEARNED    TO   READ.  11 

In  such  traditions,  I  always  felt  in  my  very  breath  and  blood, 
as  it  were,  an  innate  love  of  reading  aloud,  so  enthralling 
and  lasting  that  it  has  always  been  and  still  is  one  of  my 
keenest  delights.  To  this  instinct  also  I  suppose  I  must 
attribute  my  warm  sympathy  for  artists,  with  which  I  have 
often  been  taunted  as  an  eccentricity,  but  of  which  I  hope 
I  shall  never  be  able  to  completely  cure  myself.  Even  in 
my  school-days  I  had  organized  in  our  house  a  little  troop 
of  actors  and  actresses  of  my  own  age,  so  that  our  holidays 
were  generally  spent  in  spouting  before  an  audience  of  our 
parents  and  friends  whole  acts  at  a  time  from  Racine',  Cor- 
neille*,  and  Moliere*.  To  me  all  parts  came  equally  ac- 
ceptable. I  played  everything :  kings,  lovers,  valets,  heavy 
fathers,  old  Iforatius,  Alcesies,  Clitander,  Augustus.  Noth- 
ing could  daunt  my  eighteen  years.  I  am  not  so  sure  even 
that,  in  imitation  of  the  ancient  stage,  I  did  not  venture 
now  and  then  to  represent  some  tragic  princess  who  de- 
claimed tragic  verses  —  that  to  me  was  sufficient  attraction. 
All  this  was,  I  don't  deny,  both  in  "  action  and  utterance," 
terribly  crude  and  unequal,  fully  as  bombastic  and  spas- 
modic as  you  would  wish  to  hear.  My  voice,  scarcely 
formed,  grew'  so  husky  that  towards  the  end  of  the  piece 
I  could  hardly  make  myself  heard.  Still,  in  the  very  heart 
of  all  this  bubbling  and  frothing,  there  was  a  genuine 
stock  of  sincerity,  a  fund  of  unfeigned  emotions  that  kept 
alive  in  my  heart  the  healthy  fervor  of  honest  admiration. 

I  had  hardly  left  college  when  a  fortunate  accident 
enabled  me  to  form  the  acquaintance  of  an  eminent  elo- 
cutionist. 

Before  reading  at  the  Conservatory*,  to  an  assemblage 
of  the  Philotechnic  Society,  The  Two  Mothers^  one  of  my 
first  ventures  in  poetry,  I  read  the  piece  to  my  guardian^. 
M.  Bouilly',  who  contented  himself  with  saying  drily: 


12  THE  ART  OF  READING.  ' 

"  Dear  boy,  you  are  hardly  doing  justice  to  your  goods. 
Better  call  on  my  friend  Febve,  and  get  him  to  give  you  a 
few  lessons." 

I  called  on  Febve,  and  my  eyes  were  soon  opened.  I 
learned — what  I  had  never  suspected  —  that  elocution  has 
a  special  syntax,  and  even  an  orthography  of  its  own.  To 
this  valuable  discovery,  Febve  added  a  bit  of  advice  that 
I  have  never  since  forgotten. 

"The  auditorium  of  the  Conservatory,"  said  he,  *' re- 
sembles an  excellent  Stradivarius®.  No  violin  surpasses  it 
in  harmonious  resonance.  The  sounds  that  you  send  forth 
are  returned  to  you  by  its  melodious  walls  fuller,  rounder, 
softer.  Your  voice  can  play  on  these  walls  as  your  fingers 
play  on  the  keys  of  a  fine  musical  instrument.  Be  very 
careful  therefore  to  avoid  too  high  a  pitch.  And  lay  down 
this  rule  as  a  principle  :  A /ways  adapt  and  proportion  your 
voice  not  only  to  the  size  of  the  hall  in  which  you  speaky  but 
also  to  its  acoustic  properties. ' ' 

Febve  was  my  first  master,  my  second  was  —  my  profes- 
sion. As  dramatic  author,  I  was  continually  brought  into 
close  contact  with  that  class  of  artists  for  whom  the  art 
of  saying  a  thing  well  is  the  first,  and  in  fact  the  indis- 
pensable, requisite  of  success — play-actors.  My.  successive 
productions  enabled  me  to  see  how  the  most  celebrated 
tragic  and  comic  interpreters  of  the  day  used  to  work: 
Samson ^  Provost^",  Regnier^^  Got^^  Delaunay^^  I  ques- 
tioned them.  I  studied  them.  I  labored  with  them. 
Every  day  I  saw  them  put  into  actual  practice  every  re- 
quirement of  tone  and  action  imperiously  demanded  for 
the  successful  management  of  the  voice.  They  showed 
me  how  much  calculation,  reasoning,  science  even,  was 
necessary  for  deciding  on  a  certain  inflexion,  for  selecting 
a  certain  accent. 


HOW  I  LEARNED   TO  READ.  1 3 

Finally,  another  of  Fortune's  smiles  gave  me  the  oppor- 
tunity of  laboring  intimately  and  conjointly  with  three 
famous  women,  certainly  the  three  most  illustrious  actresses 
of  the  last  forty  years;  Mademoiselle  Mars^*,  Mademoiselle 
RacheP^  and  Madame  Ristori^^ 

Louise  de  Lignerolles,  my  first  dramatic  work  and  Mad- 
emoiselle Mars'  last  creation  but  one,  required  no  less 
than  sixty-eight  rehearsals  before  it  was  allowed  to  appear 
on  the  stage.  I  was  present  the  whole  time,  three  months. 
I  found  it  a  good  school,  a  rough  because  a  real  school. 
The  Mars  had  a  gift  of  mimicry  of  wonderful  service  to 
her  taste  for  mockery  and  her  irrepressible  love  of  fun. 
In  spite  of  some  qualities  as  reader  and  elocutionist,  I  was 
still  very  inexperienced,  and,  like  young  men  in  general, 
rather  given  to  emphasis.  But  in  my  directions  to  the 
actors,  the  instant  an  inflexion  any  way  declamatory  es- 
caped me,  that  instant  it  was  reproduced  by  Mademoiselle 
with  a  striking  exactness,  but  also  with  a  leetle  point  of 
caricature  that  made  it  irresistibly  ludicrous.  I  reddened 
with  mortification,  of  course,  but  I  had  the  good  sense  to 
keep  my  anger  to  myself,  quietly  saying :  "  This  is  your 
lesson,  my  boy;  better  take  it,  and  make  the  most  of  it." 

One  day  my  lesson  was  really  an  admirable  one.  The 
moment  the  Mars  appeared  everybody  could  see  that  she 
looked  fatigued,  rather  absent-minded,  and  little  disposed 
to  surrender  herself  completely  to  her  part.  At  the  begin- 
ning of  the  second  act  comes  a  scene  demanding  a  good 
deal  of  energy.  Mademoiselle  got  through  it  all  with  a 
low  voice,  almost  without  a  motion ;  still,  not  a  single 
effect,  not  a  single  point,  not  a  single  fine  shade  of  the 
sentiment  was  left  unexpressed  or  neglected.  They  were 
all  there,  beautifully  brought  out,  made  perfectly  visible. 
It  was  a  highly-finished  picture  seen  in  a  dim  light  \  it  was 
2 


14  THE  ART  OF  READING. 

a  fine  piece  of  music  softened,  perhaps  sweetened,  certainly 
not  deadened,  by  the  distance ;  it  was  a  pastel,  somewhat 
faded  by  time,  but  one  in  which  every  tone  still  preserved 
its  just  shade,  every  contour  its  just  line,  and  every  figure 
its  just  relation  and  complete  measure.  It  was  quite  a  new 
revelation  to  me.  I  began  now  to  understand  on  what 
broad  foundations  the  art  of  elocution  must  rest.  Here 
was  an  artist  who,  just  as  we  turn  down  the  gas  without 
destroying  the  light,  almost  completely  extinguished  her 
part  without  losing  a  particle  of  its  proportions,  of  its 
completeness,  of  its  relief. 

Rachel's  name  is  linked  indissolubly  with  a  whole  morn- 
ing's serious  labor,  the  memory  of  which  I  shall  never 
forget.  The  piece  was  still  Louise  de  Lignerolles,  which 
Rachel  wished  to  play  after  Mars'  retirement.  In  one 
scene  there  is  a  somewhat  remarkable  passage,  containing 
at  most  but  thirty  lines;  but  to  these  thirty  lines  Mad- 
emoiselle and  myself  devoted  no  less  than  three  hours'  hard, 
incessant  study.  Never  before  had  the  power  of  concen- 
trated attention,  the  fineness  of  keen  appreciation,  and 
the  modest  but  overwhelming  sincerity  of  this  truly  admi- 
rable artist  so  astounded  me,  so  enchanted  me !  It  was  a 
splendid  lesson  for  mutual  instruction.  With  what  ardor 
we  both  set  ourselves  to  work  at  the  rude  task ! 

The  great  point  to  be  gained  was  that  Rachel  was  not  to 
fall  behind  her  immortal  predecessor,  and  to  reach  such  a 
point  no  labor  should  be  spared.  Not  a  single  one  of 
these  three  to  four  hundred  words  that  we  did  not  exam- 
ine, inspect,  turn  this  way,  that  way,  every  way,  to  dis- 
cover the  true,  living,  and  penetrating  accent.  Three 
such  hours  are  worth  whole  months  of  ordinary  labor. 

A  singular  circumstance,  in  connection  with  Ristori, 
advanced  me  another  step. 


HOW  I  LEARNED   TO  READ.  1 5 

My  tragedy  of  Medea  had  led  to  my  acquaintance  with 
this  famous  lady.  Our  common  success  ripened  this  ac- 
quaintance into  friendship. 

Some  time  after  the  death  of  Rachel,  Thierry,  the  able 
and  accomplished  manager  of  the  Theatre- Fran fatSy  took 
it  into  his  head  to  organize  an  entertainment  for  the  bene- 
fit of  Racine's  granddaughter,  a  poor  old  lady,  in  fact  very 
far  advanced  in  years  and  in  very  straitened  circumstances. 
Well  aware  of  what  strong  additional  attraction  would  be 
gained  by  the  appearance  of  Madame  Ristori's  name  on 
the  play-bill,  he  came  and  asked  me  to  write  in  prose,  and 
of  course  in  French,  a  few  paragraphs  to  be  translated 
into  Italian  verse  for  recitation  by  the  great  Italian  actress. 
Setting  myself  at  once  to  work,  I  soon  accomplished  my 
task,  only,  when  all  was  done,  I  discovered  that  my 
efforts,  instead  of  confining  themselves  to  humble  prose, 
had  bloomed  out  into  poetry.  But,  nowise  disconcerted,  I 
hastened  that  very  evening  to  Madame  Ristori's,  acquainted 
ner  with  Thierry's  very  natural  request,  which  she  accepted 
and  approved  with  delight,  and  then  presented  her  with 
my  manuscript. 

"Just  read  that,"  said  I. 

*'  What  ?     These  French  verses?  '* 

"Yes." 

"Aloud?" 

"Yes." 

"Why  so?" 

"Because  these  are  the  verses  which  you  are  to  recite." 

"On  the  stage!  "  cried  Madame,  hastily  quitting  her 
chair.  "French  verses  by  me!  In  the  theatre!  You 
must  be  my  enemy !     You  want  to  have  me  hissed  !  ' ' 

"  Calm  yourself,  my  dear  lady.  Keep  cool.  He  that 
aisses  you  hisses  me.     Our  interests  are  identical.     Have 


l6  THE  ART  OF  READING. 

Ihe  kindness  then  to  resume  your  chair  and  read  these 
verses." 

My  tranquillity  and  self-assurance  calmed  her  —  a  little. 
She  began  the  lines  somewhat  restively,  but  after  awhile 
she  began  again  and  got  through  quite  passably. 

**Well?  "  asked  Madame,  after  a  little  pause. 

*'  Well,  have  the  goodness  to  read  those  lines  over  again. 
I  have  not  yet  quite  made  up  my  mind." 

She  read  them  over  again. 

*' All  right !  "  exclaimed  I,  with  a  look  of  great  deter- 
mination.    "  Now  then  to  work  !  " 

The  very  next  day  I  brought  Regnier  to  listen  to  her 
performance,  for  I  did  not  like  trusting  too  much  to  my 
own  impressions.  The  day  after,  I  brought  Samson.  A 
week  later,  Ristori  recited  these  verses,  in  French,  on  the 
stage  of  the  Theatre- Fran^ais ,  with  so  much  correctness, 
grace,  and  effect,  that  Samson  did  not  hesitate  to  say  to 
two  young  actresses,  pupils  of  his  : 

**  Young  ladies,  take  a  lesson  !  " 

Had  the  illustrious  Italian  tragedienne  completely  got 
rid  of  her  Italian  accent?  Not  at  all.  Was  Dante's  mel- 
lifluous language  still  heard  resounding  among  the  French 
rhymes?  Most  undoubtedly  it  was.  But  Madame's  fine 
talent  covered  up  everything,  and  her  success  actually  so 
much  surprised  and  pleased  me  that  I  undertook  to  write 
a  play  for  her  in  French  :  Beatrice,  or  the  Madonna  of  Art. 

The  undertaking  was  perilous.  The  risk  I  encountered 
was  the  worst  of  all  risks  —  the  risk  of  making  myself 
ridiculous.  But  I  knew  Ristori,  and  relied  on  her.  As 
soon  as  the  work  was  completed,  I  joined  her  in  Florence ; 
jnd  there,  for  a  full  month,  I  taught  her  how  to  repeat  her 
part,  line  by  line,  word  by  word,  syllable  by  syllable. 

How?     Only  listen. 


HOW  I  LEARNED   TO  READ.  If 

Two  radical  distinctions  separate  the  Italian  and  the 
French  languages :  one,  of  sound;  the  other,  of  accent. 
The  Italians  have  no  e  mute.  The  Italians  pronounce  the 
«,  not  in  the  French  way,  but  like  the  English  oo ;  as  for 
the  French  diphthong  eu^  they  have  nothing  like  it  at  all. 
Besides,  the  French  «,  the  French  o,  and  particularly  the 
French  ^,  have  intermediate  shades  of  sound  that  are  never 
completely  indicated  by  the  French  accents,  whether 
acute,  grave,  or  circumflex.  How  is  it  possible,  for  in- 
stance, to  make  a  foreigner  understand  that  the  e  in  ceiti 
is  neither  as  open  as  in  tete,  nor  as  sonorous  as  in  colere, 
nor  as  sharp  as  in  betail? 

Accentuation  presents  even  graver  difficulties.  The 
Italian  language  is  rich  and  varied  in  accentuation ;  the 
French  very  poor.  We  Frenchmen  like  to  glide  over  the 
syllables,  hardly  resting  on  any  except  the  last ;  whereas, 
to  an  Italian  ear  the  value  of  the  accent,  the  place  of  the 
accent,  possesses  a  very  decided,  indeed,  an  almost  indis- 
pensable, charm.  How  to  rid  my  interpreter  of  her  strong 
inbred  tendency  to  accentuate?  How  accustom  her,  for 
instance,  to  skim  lightly  over  the  first  three  syllables  of 
Semiramis,  dwelling  only  on  the  last  one,  when  in  Se-mi- 
rd-mi-de,  the  sonorous  Italian  word  of  five  syllables,  the  ra 
makes  itself  heard  with  so  much  roundness  and  force  ? 

After  some  careful  reflection,  I  wrote  out  Beatrice's  part 
in  strong,  heavy  letters,  on  lines  pretty  far  apart.  These 
letters  I  then  marked  with  three  kinds  of  signs  in  red  ink. 
The  first  consisted  of  lines  drawn  up  and  down  or  verti- 
cally ;  the  second  were  curves  drawn  all  along  the  word  or 
longitudinally ;  while  the  third  were  marks  placed  ovef  the 
syllables,  pretty  much  as  the  dactyls  and  spondees  are 
marked  in  our  school  prosodies. 

The  object  of  the  vertical  or  up  and  down  lines  was  to 

2*  B 


1 8  THE  ART  OF  READING. 

kill,  to  utterly  annihilate  all  the  e  mutes,  that  is,  all  the 
^'s  which  the  French  never  pronounce,  but  which  the 
Italians  always  feel  strongly  disposed  to  pronounce.  For 
example,  in  the  phrase,  Madame,  faites-tnoi  le  plaisir,  the 
up  and  down  lines  would  kill  the  final  e  of  Madame^  the 
e  oi  faites-moi,  and  the  e  oi  le  plaisir. 

The  longitudinal  and  curved  lines,  starting  from  the 
first  syllable  and  pouncing  plumb  on  the  last,  said  plainly 
and  distinctly:  "Hurry  up,  hurry  up  !  don't  lag  on  the 
way!"  Every  instant,  Madame' s  Italian  instinct  would 
fain  dwell  on  some  particularly  trying  part  of  the  word, 
but  the  inflexible  red  curve  was  there  !  "  Go  on  !  go  on  ! 
push  on  to  the  accent !  " 

Finally,  the  marks  placed  over  the  vowels  whose  inter- 
mediary sounds  do  not  exist  in  Italian,  recalled  to  her 
eyes,  by  a  characteristic  sign,  some  particular  intonation, 
with  which  I  had  already  made  her  ears  and  tongue  quite 
familiar. 

By  this  simple  method,  thrnks  to  the  musical  annota- 
tion, thanks  to  several  weeks'  pretty  hard  work,  but  thanks 
particularly  to  the  wonderful  intelligence  and  the  still 
more  wonderful  grit  of  the  artist  —  a  fighting  artist,  I  used 
to  call  her  —  we  at  last  succeeded,  not  in  depriving  an 
elegant  Italian  lady  of  her  Italian  accent  —  that  I  never 
expected  nor  even  attempted  —  but  in  leaving  her,  so  to 
speak,  no  more  than  its  savor,  its  aroma,  just  enough  to 
render  her  speech  strange  but  pleasant,  quaint  but  fai^ 
from  ridiculous  —  in  short,  piquant,  interesting,  and  de-,"* 
cidedly  charming. 

You  see  that  I  had  by  this  time  exchanged  the  role  of 
pupil  for  that  of  master.  It  was  a  new  but  most  important 
step  on  the  road  of  self-instruction.  Teaching  is  perhaps 
the  best  possible  way  of  learning.     A  dramatic  author  can- 


HOW  I  LEARNED   TO  READ.  1 9 

not  help,  in  fact,  becoming  a  teacher  of  elocution.  His 
interpreters  are  often  nothing  better  than  inexperienced 
beginners,  with  little  in  their  favor  beyond  a  pretty  face  or 
a  pretty  voice.  No  matter  for  that ;  they  are  to  such  an 
extent  the  material  part  of  his  ideal  personages,  the  tan- 
gible clothing  of  his  conceptions,  that  he  must  take  them 
just  as  they  are,  without  ever  thinking  of  exchanging  them 
for  others.  He  must  face  the  difficult  task  of  breathing  a 
soul  into  these  pretty  statues.  Every  new  idea  becomes  a 
new  lesson,  and  the  greater  the  number  of  ideas  the  harder 
the  work. 

Besides,  there  comes  a  day,  resuming  every  old  experi- 
ence and  preceding  every  new,  when  the  dramatic  author 
is  actually  thrown  on  himself,  when  he  speaks  by  himself, 
when  he  teaches  by  his  own  unaided  resources  —  the  day 
when  he  reads  his  piece  for  the  committee  by  whom  it  is 
to  be  judged  and  the  players  by  whom  he  expects  it  to  be 
acted.  An  important  and  difficult  matter !  His  task  is  to 
make  his  idea  understood,  to  turn  it  into  a  living,  compre- 
hensible essence.  The  fate  of  his  work  lies  in  his  own 
hands,  or  rather  in  his  own  voice.  Will  it  be  accepted  or 
refused  ?  Will  it  fail  or  succeed  ?  The  answer  to  these 
important  questions  depends  in  a  very  great  measure  in- 
deed on  how  he  accomplishes  his  task.  Reading  it,  is, 
in  fact,  the  first  performance  of  his  work,  only  without 
costume,  or  scenery,  or  actors,  and  with  all  the  parts  to  be 
represented  by  one  single  individual. 

Reading  a  play,  and  taking  a  part  in  it,  are  two  very 
different  things.  The  actor  has  but  one  role  to  represent ; 
the  reader  represents  them  all.  The  actor  is  a  single  musi- 
cian taking  his  part  in  the  orchestra ;  the  reader  is  the 
whole  orchestra  itself.  He  must  bring  out  in  succession 
every  age,  every  sentiment;  every  moment  he  must  change 


20  THE  ART  OF  READING. 

his  voice,  his  look,  his  movement ;  and  the  impressior 
which  he  desires  to  produce  being  above  all  things  an  im- 
pression complete  and  distinct,  though  evanescent,  he  must 
give  every  character  its  full  value,  but  no  more  than  its  full 
value ;  he  must  assign  every  character  its  own  place,  and 
keep  it  there ;  in  short,  by  his  fleeting  words  he  must  suc- 
ceed in  raising  up  before  the  imagination  of  the  audience 
a  new  picture,  but  complete,  living,  and  striking ! 

In  fact,  I  know  of  no  task  more  difficult,  no  feat  more 
trying,  and,  considering  that  I  have  had  fully  forty  years' 
incessant  converse  and  intercourse  with  the  most  emi- 
nent artists  of  our  day,  I  think  you  will  acknowledge 
that,  in  delivering  this  opinion,  I  can  flatter  myself  with 
the  idea  that  I  ought  to  know  something  touching  the 
subject. 

Lastly,  my  third  and  concluding  teacher  was  the  Col- 
lege de  France  ^^,  where,  in  1848,  I  delivered  a  course  of 
lectures  on  the  Moral  History  of  Woman,  and  another  in 
1866,  on  Parents  and  Children  in  the  Nineteenth  Century. 
There  I  was  brought  for  the  first  time  into  direct  and  un- 
interrupted contact  with  the  great  public ;  there  I  learned 
both  the  rules  imposed  and  the  resources  furnished  by  the 
presence  of  a  numerous  audience ;  and  there  I  completed 
my  education.  Not  that  I  mean  to  say,  either,  that  I  was 
then  or  am  now  anything  like  a  real  master  in  the  art  of 
reading.  I  have  known  artists,  Samson  among  the  rest, 
possessing  too  many  claims  to  this  title  to  permit  me  to 
advance  any  such  pretensions.  I  simply  mean  that  I  had 
studied  my  course,  taken  my  degree,  and  was  now  bachelor 
of  the  science.  Then  the  very  natural  idea  occurred  to 
me  that  I  should  write  my  thesis.  In  other  words,  I 
thought  I  might  render  some  service  to  the  public  in  gen- 
eral by  collecting  together  and  issuing  all  these  scattered 


HOW  I  LEARNED   TO  READ,  21 

and  desultory  observations  of  mine,  not,  of  course,  in  the 
shape  of  a  scientific  treatise,  but  in  a  little  pamphlet,  not 
altogether  indeed  without  order,  and  perhaps  occasionally- 
even  rather  bordering  on  the  didactic,  but  still  rather 
recalling  the  familiarity  of  a  lecture  than  aspiring  to  the 
dignity  and  stateliness  of  a  book. 

The  project  once  formed  in  my  mind,  mv  next  step  was 
to  go  and  talk  it  over  with  a  friend. 


CHAPTER  II. 

MUST   WE  BEAD  AS    WE  SPEAKf 

IT  was  the  spring  of  1868.  A  few  miles  from  my  place 
lived  Saint-Marc  Girardin^^,  the  very  kind  of  a  man  to 
whom  to  apply  Madame  de  Sevigne's^^  saying  regarding 
Montaigne^":  "  What  a  splendid  country  neighbor  he  would 
have  made !  "  In  fact  he  presented  the  curious  contrast 
of  the  coolest  of  heads  combined  with  a  singularly  warm 
heart.  A  tenderer  friend  I  never  knew,  nor  a  safer  adviser, 
nor  a  more  delightful  talker.  Liberty  complete  in  his  con- 
versation !  Freedoni  unquestioned  and  supreme !  His 
good  sense  always  assumed  the  shape  of  playful  fun,  and 
as  for  dry,  caustic  humor,  he  liked  it  even  in  others,  and 
relished  it  perhaps  most  when  turned  against  himself.  It 
must  be  acknowledged,  however,  that  in  repartee  he  was 
inexhaustible;  very  little  he  got  that  he  did  not  return 
with  heavy  interest. 

To  Girardin  then  I  submitted  my  idea.  He  listened 
to  me  seriously  and  attentively,  and  then  said : 

"  On  such  a  motif  you  certainly  can  execute  many  bril- 
liant variations,  a  multitude  of  bravura  airs  that  will  be  sure 
to  bring  down  the  house.  But  as  to  your  likelihood  of  giv- 
ing serious,  useful  lessons  on  such  a  subject,  I  should  deci- 
dedly say  no.  Reading  is  no  art.  It  is  nothing  more  than 
the  natural  exercise  of  a  natural  organ.  Some  people  are 
good  readers ;  some  are  bad  readers.  But  the  talent  of 
the  first  is  nothing  more  than  a  gift,  a  charm,  a  quality; 


MUST  WE   READ  AS   WE   STEAK?  23 

it  is  in  fact  everything  but  an  art.  Good  reading  is  not  a 
thing  to  be  learned.  Of  course  I  don't  mean  to  deny  that 
the  exercise  of  this  natural  gift  will  not  suggest  some  use- 
ful rules  :  physical  rules ^  don't  speak  too  much  or  read 
too  much,  as  we  must  not  walk  too  much  or  eat  too  much ; 
common  sense  rules,  don't  read  too  loud,  or  read  too  low, 
or  read  too  fast,  or  read  too  slow ;  taste  and  modesty  rules, 
don't  read  what  you  do  not  understand,  and  if  you  do  un- 
derstand it,  try  to  make  your  hearers  understand  it.  But 
beyond  such  general,  summary,  common-place  instructions 
as  these,  which  could  all  be  easily  comprised  in  a  few 
lines,  I  can  find  in  reading  none  of  those  clear,  precise, 
tangible  rules,  founded  on  principles,  which  constitute  an 
art.  The  whole  nrt  of  Reading,  in  fact,  lies  in  a  nutshell : 
read  as  you  speak  !  ' ' 

For  Saint-Marc  Girardin's  taste  I  always  entertained  the 
greatest  respect,  and  with  his  rare  sincerity  I  was  well 
acquainted.  But  on  this  particular  subject  I  was  fully 
convinced  of  the  correctness  of  my  own  opinion.  Besides, 
underneath  all  this  fluent  and  confident  criticism  I  heard 
a  certain  little  sentence  continually  resounding.  He  never 
said  this  little  sentence  in  words  to  me ;  most  probably  he 
never  said  it  in  words  to  himself;  no  matter,  there' it  was, 
bubbling  up  bright  and  clear  through  the  transparent  flow 
of  his  language:  "The  fact  of  the  matter  is,  I,  Saint- 
Marc  Girardin,  read  well  though  I  never  learned  to  read ; 
therefore,  learning  to  read  is  useless." 

My  reply  was  somewhat  as  follows  : 

**Dear  friend,  there  is  no  denying  that  there  is  some 
truth  in  what  you  say,  as  there  must  be  some  truth  in  every- 
thing said  by  all  men  of  wit,  even  on  subjects  which  they 
have  never  studied.  Now,  though  a  Professor  at  the  Sor- 
bpnne'',  you  are  nothing  more  than  a  man  of  wit  on  the 


24  THE   ART  OF  READING, 

present  question.  You  talk  in  a  lively  and  pleasant  man- 
ner on  a  subject  concerning  which  you  know  really  very 
little." 

I  saw  hiin  wince  slightly  at  this ;  the  professional  ears 
were  not  accustomed  to  such  free  language. 

I  quietly  resumed  : 

"  That  to  be  a  good  reader  some  natural  gift  is  required, 
cannot  be  questioned ;  and  certainly  reading  is  not  one  of 
those  arts  or  trades  that  are  emphatically  closed  to  you 
forever  if  a  careful  apprenticeship  has  not  initiated  your 
youthful  years  into  their  mysteries.  That  several  readers 
who  have  never  seriously  studied  the  subject,  read  with 
grace  and  can  even  give  pleasure  to  their  hearers,  is  equally 
incontestable.  Of  this  you  are  a  living  proof  yourself. 
You  produce  an  effect;  you  are  always  applauded ;  still 
you  don't  read  well  —  excuse  the  freedom — but  really  you 
are  by  no  means  a  good  reader." 

Here  he  smiled  knowingly  and  quite  complacently. 

"  Hah  !     I'm  not  a  good  reader,  eh  ?  " 

''Far  from  it;  and  the  proof  is  that  if  anybody  else 
read  exactly  like  you  he  would  be  a  bad  reader." 

"Explain  that  riddle,  won't  you?"  he  observed,  with  a 
laugh.  ' 

"  Nothing  simpler.  In  your  course  of  lectures  at  the 
Sorbonne  I  heard  you  read  pieces  from  Lamartine,  from 
Corneille,  from  Victor  Hugo  ;  and  at  the  French  Academy  •^^ 
I  heard  you  read  some  of  your  own  discourses.  The  dif- 
ference was  very  great." 

"  In  what  respect?  "  he  asked,  looking  a  little  puzzled. 

"  In  this :  the  verses  of  our  great  poets,  as  read  by  you, 
were  very  much  applauded.  Why  so?  Because  you  in* 
spired  your  reading  with  much  of  your  superior  intelli' 
gence,  learning,  and  wit ;  because  you  read  with  a  clear^ 


MUST  WE  READ  AS   WE  SPEAK?  25 

vibrating,  far-reaching  voice:  because  you  read  with  an 
air  of  conviction.  But  all  these  were  personal  qualities 
of  your  own  which  almost  completely  concealed  your 
defects." 

"  My  defects  !     What  were  they,  pray?" 

"  Well,  your  voice  has  notes  that  when  at  a  high  pitch 
are  a  little  harsh.  Your  delivery  is  sometimes  rather  dec- 
lamatory and  emphatic  —  young  ears,  I  don't  deny,  rather 
like  a  little  ranting.  But  just  change  your  audience.  Or 
rather  give  your  manner  to  somebody  who  has  that  and 
nothing  else,  neither  your  wit,  nor  your  superiority,  nor 
your  authority.  The  more  successfully  he  imitates  you, 
the  less  likely  he  will  be  to  please.  Now  nothing  is  really 
and  substantially  good  except  what  can  be  imitated  without 
danger.  That  is  the  final  test.  You  read,  therefore,  with 
talent,  no  doubt,  but  you  do  not  read  like  a  good  reader." 

'*  Not  even  my  own  discourses?  " 

"Ah!  your  own  discourses!  These  nobody  else  can 
read  as  you  do." 

"  How  is  that  ?     Are  not  my  defects ?  " 

''In  reading  your  own  discourses,  your  very  defects  are 
your  first  requisites  of  success.  They  form  a  portion  of 
your  own  individuality  !  A  single  instance  will  make  my 
meaning  clear.  Jules  Sandeau  ^^  asked  me  to  read  in  pub- 
lic a  charming  reply  which  he  had  written  to  Camille  Dou- 
cet^*.  '1  will  do  nothing  of  the  kind,'  replied  I.  'Why 
not?'  he  asked,  'you  read  so  much  better.'  'Yes,'  was 
my  answer,  '  but  that  particular  piece  of  yours  I  should  not 
read  half  so  well;  your  discourse  is  yourself.  In  read- 
ing it,  I  certainly  should  not  commit  the  faults  that  you 
will  commit.  I  should  not  drop  my  breath  at  the  last  syl- 
lable. I  should  try  to  bring  out  the  strong  points  with 
higher  relief.  But  that  unstudied  attitude  of  yours  I  could 
3 


26  THE  ART  OF  READING. 

never  catch,  nor  that  indolent  voice,  nor  that  touch-me-nol 
air,  nor  that  easy-going  indifference,  all  of  which  complete 
the  effect  of  your  words  by  producing  your  personality-— 
which  are  so  charming  in  you,  because  they  are  so  delight- 
fully natural,  but  which  would  be  absolutely  displeasing 
in  me  as  too  unnatural,  too  studied,  and  too  far-fetched. 
Your  discourse  is  a  plump  discourse,  blooming  and  blond ; 
I  should  read  it  like  a  man  who  is  thin,  sallow,  and  dark. 
Read  it  yourself! '  Sandeau  believed  me,  and  his  suc- 
cess showed  him  that  I  was  quite  right.  But  if  he  had  read 
any  one  else's  discourse  in  the  same  style  as  he  read  his  own, 
he  would  be  a  traitor." 

"The  anecdote  is  rather  pretty,"  observed  Girardin, 
'*  but  I  don't  exactly  see  where  it  takes  us  to.  I  understand 
exactly  what  you  say,  but  I  don't  understand  what  conse- 
quences you  wish  to  draw. ' ' 

"Another  illustration  will  make  it  all  as  plain  as  a  pike- 
staff. Viennet^^  as  you  know,  enjoyed  quite  a  reputation 
as  a  reader,  a  reputation  well  deserved,  I  admit,  as  long  as 
he  read  his  own  verses.  His  hoarse  voice,  his  rough  ges- 
ticulations by  which  no  doubt  he  imagined  he  showed  his 
independence,  his  little  tuft  of  hair  sticking  out  of  the  top 
of  his  head  like  the  comb  of  a  cock,  and  his  jovial  intona- 
tions, were  all  the  exact  representation  of  his  peculiar  tal- 
ents, lively  certainly,  but  a  little  coarse.  Add  to  this,  he 
took  the  greatest  possible  pleasure  in  his  own  productions, 
and  nobody  admired  Viennet  more  than  Viennet  himself. 
All  this,  as  you  may  very  well  suppose,  gave  his  delivery,, 
whenever  he  read  his  own  verses,  a  glow,  a  heat,  a  fire  thai 
carried  away  the  audience.  I  was  asked  one  day  to  read 
some  verses  of  Viennet's  at  the  Academy.  I  refused  point- 
blank.  *  Neither  myself,'  I  observed,  *  nor  the  poem  could 
have  the  least  chance  of  success.     I  should  fail  in  one  of 


MUST  WE  READ  AS  WE   SPEAK?  2/ 

Vien net's  most  indispensable  elements  —  namely,  the  pro 
found  conviction  that  what  I  was  reading  was  a  master- 
piece." 

This  harmless  little  sally  made  Girardin  laugh,  and  he 
added  gaily : 

"But  the  conclusion?  What  conclusion  do  you  draw 
from  all  this?  " 

"I  conclude  that  we  must  not  call  a  reader  a  good  reader 
merely  because  he  is  applauded  in  reading  his  own  produc- 
tions—  where  often  his  very  faults  as  a  reader  contribute 
most  decidedly  to  his  success  —  the  man  being,  as  it  were, 
thrown  in  with  the  discourse.  I  conclude  also  that  we 
must  exclude  altogether  certain  choice  natures,  certain  ex- 
ceptional organizations,  such  as  yours  for  instance,  which 
can  dispense  with  rules,  overleaping  them  as  they  do  by 
their  innate  strength  and  grace !  *  Rules  of  art  are  not 
necessary  for  us ; '  they  can  truly  say  to  themselves,  *  we 
don't  need  them.'  But  I  conclude,  in  the  third  place,  that 
ordinary  humanity,  the  majority,  the  masses,  must  learn  to 
read  in  order  to  know  how  to  read,  and  that  the  art  of 
reading  is  not  only  indispensable  to  them^  but  also  highly 
useful  to  superior  humanity,  for  even  yourself,  my  dear 
friend,  would  require  a  little  more  science  if  you  had  a 
little  less  talent." 

**But  this  science  —  what  does  it  consist  in?  How  is 
it  defined?     Express  the  whole  thing  in  a  few  words." 

"The  art  of  speaking  and  reading  correctly." 

"  Correctly !  Such  a  term  implies  rules.  What  are  these 
rules?" 

"These  rules  are  of  two  kinds,  the  material  and  the  intel- 
lectual. For  we  must  never  forget  that  the  art  of  reading 
relies  at  once  and  just  as  much  on  the  correct  exercise  of 
a  physical  organ  —  the  voice  —  as  well  as  on  that  of  a 


28  THE  ART  OF  READING. 

spiritual  organ  —  thought.  Now,  suppose  we  study  the 
voice  a  little,  to  begin  with? " 

**  I  shall  be  delighted  !  "  replies  Girardin. 

"  Well,  I  shall  write  out  my  observations  on  the  voice 
with  some  care — here  we  require  preciseness,  you  know — 
and  as  soon  as  they  are  ready  you  shall  hear  me  read 
them." 

Alas  !  the  breaking  out  of  the  war  interfered  with  our 
projects.  I  wrote  out  nothing ;  I  read  nothing  for  my 
friend;  and  it  is  only  a  few  months  ago  that,  at  the  request 
of  Monsieur  Bersot'^^  one  of  the  chief  pillars  in  our  sys- 
tem of  public  instruction,  I  wrote  out  for  the  pupils  of 
the  Normal  School  this  hurried  resume  of  my  own  experi- 
ences. 


PfiOPERTy  Of 
OEPAfilfJEII  Of  DRAMATIC  ART 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE    VOICE. 

THE  physical  part  of  the  art  of  reading  embraces  two 
objects:  (i)  the  voice  and  the  pronunciation;  (2)  the 
Bounds  or  words. 

The  organ  of  the  voice,  similar  in  some  respect  to  the 
organs  of  sight  and  of  hearing,  differs  from  both  in  several 
important  particulars.  The  operations  of  seeing  and  of 
hearing  may  be  said  to  be  results  of  involuntary  acts.  Our 
eyes  once  open  to  the  light,  our  ears  once  open  to  sound, 
we  see  and  we  hear  as  a  matter  of  course  and  almost  in 
spite  of  ourselves.  Our  voice  organ,  on  the  contrary,  is 
exercised  only  by  an  act  of  the  will :  we  speak  only  when 
we  desire  to  speak. 

A  second  difference.  We  can  see  or  hear  no  more  than 
our  eyes  or  our  ears  permit ;  and  we  cannot  see  less  or 
hear  less  in  any  other  way  than  by  withdrawing  ourselves 
from  the  action  of  external  things,  and  by  placing  some 
veil,  as  it  were,  or  other  obstacle  between  the  outer  world 
and  ourselves. 

It  is  not  so  with  the  voice.  We  can  speak  stronger  or 
weaker,  louder  or  lower,  faster  or  slower,  exactly  as  we 
wish ;  we  can  as  easily  regulate  the  measurement  of  our 
voice  as  we  can  its  utterance. 

The  consequence  to  be  deduced  from  this  is  very  clear 
ind  obvious.  We  need  no  learning  to  hear  or  to  see  (I 
speak  of  the  physical  act  only) ;  therefore  hearing  and  see- 
3*  29 


30  THE  ART  OF  READING. 

ing  cannot  be  considered  arts ;  but  we  do  need  learning  iia 
order  to  speak,  speech  being  an  operation  entirely  depend- 
ent on  the  will  and  exclusively  resulting  from  its  exercise. 

This  may  demand  a  little  further  explanation. 

The  organ  of  the  voice  is  not  merely  an  organ;  it  is 
really  an  instrument,  just  as  much  as  a  piano  is  an  instru- 
ment. Now,  what  is  the  prominent  characteristic  of  the 
piano  ?  Its  key-board.  What  does  the  key-board  consist 
of?  Of  several  octaves,  generally  six  or  six  and  a  half. 
These  octaves  comprise  three  kinds  of  notes :  the  base  notes, 
the  middle  notes,  and  the  high  notes,  the  sound  of  each 
note  depending  on  the  length,  thickness,  tightness,  and 
other  qualities  of  the  strings.  Well,  the  voice  has  a  key- 
board too,  and  a  range,  just  like  the  piano ;  it  has  three 
kinds  of  notes,  just  like  the  piano;  and,  just  like  the  piano, 
it  has  strings  thick  and  thin,  loose  and  tight,  long  and 
short.  Therefore,  as  we  can  never  expect  to  play  the  piano 
without  being  taught,  we  may  never  expect  to  play  well  on 
the  voice  organ  without  being  also  taught. 

I  may  say  even  more.  On  leaving  the  hands  of  a  skil- 
ful manufacturer,  a  piano  is  an  instrument  as  complete  and 
perfect  as  human  skill  can  make  it,  and  the  sounds  it  gives 
forth  are  as  harmonious  and  correct  as  artist-hand  can  pro- 
duce. But  the  little  piano  we  receive  from  Mother  Nature 
is  very  far  from  being  in  a  state  of  such  perfection.  Some 
of  its  strings  are  wanting  altogether ;  some  of  its  sounds 
are  quite  discordant ;  some  of  its  notes  are  absolutely  false ; 
so  that  by  the  time  we  come  to  be  a  voice-pianist,  we  have 
got  to  be  not  only  a  player,  but  also  a  manufacturer,  a  re- 
pairer, a  tuner,  that  is  to  say,  we  are  ourselves  obliged  to 
complete,  harmonize,  equalize,  adjust,  and  tune  our  instru- 
ment. 

In  the  art  of  reading,  our  three  kinds  of  notes,  the  low, 


THE    VOICE.  31 

the  middle,  and  the  high,  are  all  indispensable ;  but,  as 
their  force  and  value  are  different,  their  employment  must 
also  be  evidently  somewhat  different.  Of  the  three,  the 
solidest,  the  most  flexible,  and  the  most  natural  is  the  mid- 
dle voice.  As  Mole'^^,  a  celebrated  actor  of  the  last  cen- 
tury, often  said,  *'  the  middle  voice  is  the  father,  without 
it  no  posterity."  The  middle  voice,  in  fact,  is  our  ordi- 
nary voice,  and  is  therefore  the  best  and  truest  delineator 
of  our  truest  and  most  natural  sentiments.  The  low  notes 
are  not  witliout  great  power  ;  the  high  notes  are  occasionally 
brilliant ;  but  to  neither  should  recourse  be  had  frequently; 
they  should  be  employed  only  when  certain  unusual  effects 
are  to  be  produced  —  that  is  to  say  only  exceptionally  and 
sparingly.  As  an  illustration,  I  should  compare  our  high 
notes  to  cavalry,  whose  peculiar  province  is  to  make  dash- 
ing charges  and  initiate  strong  attacks ;  the  low  notes  I 
should  compare  to  the  artillery,  as  denoting  strength,  effort, 
and  the  putting  forth  of  unusual  power ;  but  the  main  body 
of  the  army,  its  real  working  strength  and  spirit,  the  ele- 
ment on  which  the  tactician  relies  the  most  and  employs 
the  oftenest,  is  the  infantry.  The  middle  voice  is  our 
infantry.  The  chief  precept,  therefore,  which  I  would 
most  earnestly  impress  on  you  is  this:  to  the  middle 
voice  accord  the  supremacy,  first,  last,  and  always  !  The 
high  notes  are  too  frail,  too  thin,  too  delicate.  By  em- 
ploying them  too  often  or  too  much,  you  wear  them  out, 
you  falsify  them,  you  make  them  squeaky;  your  little  piano 
will  be  put  out  of  tune  and  the  whole  organ,  in  fact,  con- 
siderably changed  for  the  worse. 

Not  unfrequently  even  has  the  abuse  of  these  high  notes 
affected  injuriously  the  orator's  very  flow  of  thought. 
Berryer^*,  the  world-renowned  advocate,  assured  me  that 
he  lost,  one  day,  a  very  good  cause  by  unconsciouslv  start- 


32  THE  ART  OF  READING, 

ing  his  speech  in  too  high  a  key.  His  temples  soon  felt 
the  unusual  fatigue  of  the  larynx;  from  the  temples  it 
passed  to  the  brain;  the  strain  being  too  great,  the  brain 
gave  way ;  the  thought  became  confused,  and  the  language 
disarranged  and  indistinct.  Berryer  actually  broke  down 
in  open  court  simply  because  he  had  never  thought  of  de- 
scending from  the  lofty  perch  whence  his  voice  had  started 
at  the  beginning  of  his  discourse. 

Just  as  dangerous  is  the  abuse  of  the  lower  notes.  They 
always  tend  to  infuse  monotony,  gloom,  dulness,  h  iviness. 
Talma  %  in  his  younger  days,  gave  way  often  to  this  de- 
fect. His  voice,  though  mainly  powerful  and  emotional, 
had  a  touch  of  the  dismal  about  it.  Long  and  careful 
training  alone  at  last  succeeded  in  keeping  it  out  of  the 
cavern  into  which  it  was  too  often  disposed  to  fall. 

A  little  anecdote  occurs  to  me  this  moment  on  this  very 
subject,  and  it  is  perhaps  worth  relating.  My  father,  as  I 
have  already  had  the  pleasure  of  telling  you,  was  an  excel- 
lent reader.  To  this  talent  much  of  his  success  as  Professor 
in  the  College  of  France  was  due,  it  being  a  regular  habit 
of  his  to  introduce  into  his  more  serious  lessons  passages 
from  the  great  poets,  which  he  recited  with  much  applause. 
This  applause,  of  course,  he  naturally  appreciated,  but  just 
as  naturally  it  procured  him  envy,  jealousy,  enmity.  A 
hostile  critic  wrote  in  some  paper:  "Yesterday,  Monsieur 
Legouve  gave  us  two  scenes  from  Racine,  his  voice  as 
sepulchral  as  ever."  A  good-natured  friend,  Parseval- 
Grandmaison^",  the  elegant  poet,  seeing  the  article,  in- 
stantly says  to  himself,  "Poor  Legouve  will  be  put  out 
by  this  slander.  Really  I  must  run  and  console  him  a 
\ittle." 

He  finds  my  father  stretched  on  the  sofa,  and  looking 
decidedly  out  of  sorts. 


THE    VOICE.  33 

"  Ah  !  my  dear  Parse val,  is  that  you  ?  " 

"  Hello  !  Legouve.  What 's  the  matter?  A  little  sick, 
eh?" 

**No  —  o  —  throat  a  little  sore  —  that 's  all  !  But 'say, 
Parseval,  \vhat  do  you  think  of  my  voice  ?  ' ' 

"I  think  it  is  a  splendid  voice  —  a  first-class  voice  !  " 

"Yes,  yes  —  but  how  would  you  characterize  it?  What 
is  its  style?  Its  quality?  Would  you  call  it  —  hem  —  a 
brilliant  voice?" 

"Brilliant well,  no.     Brilliant    is  not  exactly  the 

epithet  by  which  I  would  characterize  your  voice.  I 
should  rather  call  it  a  sonorous  voice." 

"Sonorous  —  that's  it,  isn't  it?  Mine  is  a  sonorous 
voice  ? ' ' 

"Well  —  though  your  voice  is  decidedly  a  sonorous 
roice,  sonorous  is  not  exactly  the  best  term  to  describe 
it.  Perhaps  it  would  be  better  to  call  your  voice  a  grave 
voice." 

"  Grave well !     Grave  be  it.     But  not  dismal  ?  " 

"  Dismal !  Oh,  not  at  all  dismal !  By  no  manner  of 
means  dismal !  —  However  —  occasionally " 

"  But  you  can't  call  it  a  hollow  voice,  eh  ?  or  a  croaking 
voice,  or  a  cavernous  voice,  or ?  " 

"  Certainly  not !  Neither  hollow,  nor  croaking,  nor 
cavernous  !     Far  from  it !     Still " 

"Enough!"  cried  my  father,  bursting  into  a  merry 
laugh.  "I  see  you  have  not  only  read  this  infernal  critic's 
article,  but  you  actually  believe  his  criticism  !  Sepulchral 
is  the  epithet  you  are  looking  for,  is  n't  it  ?    Ha  !  ha  !  ha !  " 

The  story  is  not  without  its  moral.  From  that  day  my 
father  was  exceedingly  careful  and  even  cautious  regarding 
the  use  of  his  low  notes;  by  mingling  them  judiciously 
with  the  two  other  registers,  he  at  last  succeeded  in  reach- 

C 


34  THE  ART  OF  READING. 

ing  that  natural  variety  of  intonations  which  is  at  once  a 
charm  for  the  hearer  and  a  rest  for  the  reader. 

But' careful  efforts  towards  effecting  this  judicious  min- 
gling, are  not  the  only  exercises  the  voice  must  undergo. 
A  voice,  to  be  properly  trained,  requires  continual  practice, 
constant  orderly  work.  Systematic  practice  makes  weak 
voices  strong,  stiff  voices  flexible,  harsh  voices  soft  —  it  acts, 
in  short,  on  the  speaking  voice  exactly  as  systematic  musi- 
cal practice  acts  on  the  singing  voice.  It  has  been  even 
said  of  some  artists  —  Duprez^^,  for  instance  —  that  they 
have  made  themselves  a  voice.  The  expression,  of  course, 
is  not  literally  correct :  we  can  never  make  ourselves  a 
voice,  if  nature  does  not  give  us  one.  If  this  could  be  done, 
none  of  us  would  be  without  a  voice.  Nobody  would  ever 
lose  his  voice,  if  he  could  only  make  himself  a  new  one 
whenever  he  pleased.  But  the  expression  is  perfectly  cor- 
rect, if  we  give  it  its  evident  meaning.  We  can  improve 
our  voice  to  such  a  degree  that  it  might  be  called  a  new 
one,  that  you  could  scarcely  recognize  it.  We  can  give  it 
body,  brilliancy,  grace,  and  this,  not  only  by  the  regular 
gymnastic  practice  for  strengthening  the  organ,  but  also  by 
training  it  into  a  certain  method  of  successfully  attacking 
the  sounds.  What  is  clearly  meant  by  ?fiaking  a  voice 
is :  careful  study  often  gives  an  artist  notes  that  he  had 
not  at  all  at  first.  And  this  is  perfectly  true.  One  day, 
Madame  Malibran  ^^,  singing  the  famous  rondo  in  La  Son- 
nambula,  actually  sent  us  into  ecstasies  by  thrilling  on  high 
D,  after  starting  from  D  three  octaves  below !  Had  she 
acquired  these  three  octaves  from  nature  ?  Not  at  all !  To 
diligent  work  alone,  and  study  and  practice  and  patience, 
was  she  indebted  for  a  good  many  extra  notes. 

After  the  concert,  I  remember  it  like  yesterday,  some 
of  us  crowded  around  her   and  naturally  expressed  our 


THE   VOICE.  35 

admiration  for  her  high  D.  She  replied  with  a  pleasant 
laugh : 

**  Ah,  I  have  been  looking  long  enough  for  that  same 
high  D  !  A  full  month  at  least  have  I  been  on  its  track ! 
Everywhere  did  I  search  for  it !  Dressing  and  undressing, 
day  and  night,  combing  and  washing,  and  one  morning 
just  as  I  was  putting  on  my  shoe  what  should  I  find  inside 
but  my  high  D!  " 

This  shows  us  how  art  not  only  teaches  us  to  govern  our 
dominions  well,  but  also  actually  how  to  extend  their  fron- 
tiers 


.    CHAPTER  IV. 

TAKING  BREATH. 

THE  second  point  to  which  I  wish  to  call  your  attention 
is  how  to  take  breath  when  you  read.  At  first  sight  it 
would  certainly  seem  that  if  there  is  a  natural  act  in  the 
world,  an  act  with  which  art  can  have  nothing  whatever  to 
do,  that  act  is  the  act  of  taking  breath.  Breathing  is  living, 
and  we  breathe  as  unconsciously  as  we  live.  Be  assured, 
however,  that  we  can  never  read  well  if  we  do  not  take 
our  breath  well,  which  is  a  thing  we  can  never  do  without 
first  learning  how  to  do  it.  In  fact,  to  know  how  to  take 
his  breath  properly  is  one  of  the  most  unusual  qualifications 
of  a  reader.  Before  you  give  way  to  your  surprise,  let  me 
explain  what  I  mean. 

When  we  breathe  as  we  ordinarily  do,  the  air,  entering 
our  lungs,  leaves  them  like  a  gentle  current  of  water  issu- 
ing from  a  spring-well,  continuously,  insensibly,  regularly. 
But  would  this  quiet  flow  of  air  through  the  windpipe  be 
enough  to  put  the  vocal  chords  in  vibration  ?  Not  at  all. 
They  would  remain  just  as  mute  as  a  piano-string  when  we 
do  not  touch  the  key.  Air  is  quite  as  necessary  to  the 
vocal  apparatus  as  fingers  to  the  piano.  The  air  must  ex- 
ert a  pressure  in  order  to  produce  a  sound. 

Some  of  you  have  probably  heard  an  aeolian  harp.  What 
causes  its  strings  to  vibrate?  You  place  it  in  a  window- 
frame,  between  the  lower  sash  and  the  sill.  If  there  is  but 
a  slight  current  of  air,  the  harp  is  mute.     It  is  only  when 

36 


TAKING  BREATH.  37 

the  current  condenses  and  wind  is  produced  that  the  strings 
resound.  The  same  phenomenon  occurs  whenever  we 
speak.  We  condense,  we  compress  the  air  as  it  comes 
from  our  lungs,  we  force  it  as  it  struggles  in  our  windpipe, 
and  speech  is  the  result  of  the  shock.  Now  what  have  we 
been  doing?  We  have  simply  —  to  say  it  in  a  word  or 
two  —  we  have  simply  been  expending  more  air  than  is 
required  for  a  single  act  of  ordinary  respiration.  The 
comparison  of  the  flowing  spring  is  now  no  longer  correct ; 
we  must  rather  think  of  water  discharged  by  a  force- 
pump,  with  greater  pressure,  greater  density,  greater  rapid- 
ity. This  is  a  great  modification  of  the  ordinary  conditions 
of  breathing.  We  can  give  only  what  we  have.  To  ex- 
pend more,  we  must  possess  more.  The  little  reservoir  of 
air  that  would  be  quite  sufficient  to  supply  the  nornial  and 
insensible  act  of  breathing,  is  evidently  far  from  sufficient 
to  satisfy  the  demands  made  by  the  energetic  actions  of 
speech.  We  must  therefore  establish  a  balance  between 
our  debits  and  our  c7-edits.  We  must  keep  a  larger  stock 
on  hand.  And  for  this  purpose  we  must  draw  continual 
checks  on  the  bank  itself,  that  is  to  say,  on  the  atmosphere 
that  surrounds  us.  Drawing  these  checks  is  taking  breath. 
Breathing  well,  therefore,  consists  of  the  harmonious  per- 
formance of  two  separate  actions  —  aspiration  or  taking 
bieath,  and  respiration  or  exhaling  breath.  Inhaling  is 
collecting,  storing  our  goods  away;  exhaling  is  parting 
with  them,  using  them  up. 

These  are  two  different  arts ;  to  inhale  well  is  an  art,  to 
exhale  well  is  an  art.  Now  what  is  the  chief  point  to  be 
observed  in  the  art  of  inhaling  ?  Simply  this :  we  must 
take  breath  by  means  of  the  base  of  our  lungs,  we  must 
employ  the  diaphragm  itself  to  perform  the  operation.  If 
to  inhale  we  employ  only  the  upper  portion  of  our  lungs, 
4 


38  THE  ART  OF  READING. 

we  take  in  but  a  small  stock  of  air.  We  never  fill  up  our 
magazine.  We  hardly  fill  a  third  of  it.  What  is  the  con- 
sequence? Our  stock  runs  out  quickly,  too  quickly,  so 
that,  if  we  have  a  long  passage  to  read,  we  resemble  the  man 
who  started  on  a  journey  across  the  desert  with  his  water- 
pitcher  only  half  full.  We  want  air;  we  can't  do  without 
air ;  we  must  turn  back  then  and  get  air  —  a  great  fatigue 
for  yourself,  and  for  your  hearers  too,  as  you  shall  find 
presently. 

The  first  duty,  therefore,  of  a  reader  who  has  some 
serious  work  on  hand,  is,  at  the  very  beginning,  to  take  a 
good  deep  inspiration  so  as  to  give  his  lungs  an  abundant 
supply.  Then  comes  the  second  part  of  the  perform- 
ance —  a  far  more  difficult  one  —  the  paying  out.  A  bad 
reader  never  inhales  enough,  and  always  exhales  too  much 
—  that  is,  he  wastes  an  ill-supplied  store  without  order  or 
measure.  He  squanders  his  money  lavishly,  like  the  prod- 
igal son,  expending  it  on  trifles,  instead  of  distributing  it 
with  forethought,  with  science  —  in  a  word,  he  is  totally 
unable  to  husband  it  habitually  and  systematically,  so  as 
to  be  always  ready  to  display  it  magnificently  on  the  grand 
occasions. 

The  result  is  inevitable ;  it  happens  as  a  matter  of  course. 
We  see  it  every  day.  The  reader  or  the  speaker,  like 
certain  actors  or  singers,  is  obliged  to  make  a  constant 
appeal  to  the  bellows,  to  take  those  noisy,  wheezy,  hoarse 
catches  of  breath,  so  well  known  in  theatrical  language 
as  gasps  —  more  painful  even  to  the  heaier  than  to  the 
performer. 

A  certain  singer,  in  other  respects  really  eminent,  had 
this  fault.  He  took  in  breath  every  moment,  until  this 
double  action  of  the  lungs,  half  singing  half  hissing,  at 
last  became  unsupportable.     He  perceived  it,  however,  at 


TAKING  BREATH.  39 

last,  himself,  and  corrected  it — a  proof  that  such  a  fault 
can  be  corrected. 

Stockhausen,  '^  a  real  artist,  astonished  the  Swiss 
guides  by  never  allowing  himself  to  be  put  out  of  breath 
by  the  hardest  feats  of  climbing.  **  It  was  quite  a  simple 
matter,"  said  he  to  me  one  day;  **1  know  exactly  when 
to  take  in  my  breath  and  when  to  let  it  out."  Rubini**  the 
famous  singer  reached  the  highest  eminence  in  this  pecu- 
liar art.  He  was  never  heard  to  take  breath.  How  did 
he  manage  it?     A  little  anecdote  may  explain  the  secret. 

Talma  when  still  young  was  playing  in  Diderot's'*"  Pere 
de  famille.  Coming  to  the  famous  but  rather  lengthy 
passage,  ^^  Fifteen  hundred  francs  a  year,  and  my  Sophie,''^ 
etc.,  he  starts  off  at  a  tremendous  pace,  cries,  yells,  gesticu- 
lates —  but  he  has  hardly  left  the  stage  when,  completely 
out  of  breath,  he  stops,  leans  against  a  wing  for  support, 
and  rests  there  a  few  minutes  panting,  puffing,  and  blowing 
like  an  overworked  ox. 

'*  Simpleton  !  "  cries  Mole,  glancing  at  him  with  some 
contempt,  ''yet  nothing  less  than  tragedy  will  go  down 
with  you  !  Come  to  my  room  to-morrow,  and  let  me  show 
you  how  to  be  passionate  without  splitting  your  lungs." 

Talma  went  to  his  room,  but,  whether  the  master  lacked 
patience  or  the  pupil  docility,  the  lesson  did  not  seem  to 
improve  matters. 

There  was  at  that  time  in  the  theatre  an  actor  named 
Dorival^^,  who,  though  thin,  consumptive-looking,  and 
weak-voiced,  managed  to  play  certain  tragic  parts  with 
some  success. 

**  How  does  the  confounded  fellow  manage  it?"  asked 
Talma  of  himself.  "I  am  ten  times  stronger,  yet  he  gets 
through  his  work  with  ten  times  less  fatigue  !  I  must  ask 
him  for  his  secret !  " 


40  THE   ART  OF  READING. 

He  asks,  but  Dorival  puts  him  off  by  a  reply  altogether 
too  fawning  to  be  without  a  certain  smack  of  jealousy. 

"Oh!  Monsieur  Talma,  you  are  too  successful  a  trage- 
dian to  stand  in  need  of  any  poor  lesson  of  mine!  " 

**  You  refuse,  eh?"  says  Talma;  ''all  right!  But,"  he 
adds  in  an  underbreath,  "  I  shall  get  at  that  secret  of  yours 
or  know  for  what ! ' ' 

One  evening,  when  Dorival  was  playing  Chdiillon  in  Vol- 
taire's" famous  tragedy  of  Zaire,  what  does  young  Talma 
do  but  ensconce  himself  in  the  prompter's  box — to  see  with- 
out any  danger  of  being  seen.  There,  wrapped  up  in  com- 
plete obscurity  and  silent  as  a  wild  beast  ready  for  the 
spring,  he  spies,  he  pries,  he  notes,  he  marks,  he  watches 
and  waits.  But  he  has  not  to  wait  very  long.  At  the  end 
of  the  well-known  passage  in  the  second  act,  he  suddenly 
quits  his  hiding-place,  exclaiming  :  ''Hurrah !  I 've  got  you 
now!" 

What  had  he  discovered?  Nothing  more  or  less  than 
this :  that  all  Dorival' s  art  depended  on  his  knowing  how 
to  take  breath.  And  in  what  did  that  knowledge  consist  ? 
"He  always  made  sure"  (I  am  copying  Talma's  own 
words)  "  to  take  breath  just  before  his  lungs  were  entirely 
exhausted  of  air;  and,  in  order  to  effectively  conceal  his 
continuous  inhalations,  which  would  have  broken  up  his 
speech  and  even  interrupted  the  current  of  his  emotion, 
he  took  in  breath  more  particularly  before  the  «'s  or  /?'s 
or  ^'s,  never  before  the  /'s  or  u'?,,  that  is  to  say,  only  at 
the  very  places  where  the  mouth,  already  open,  permitted 
him  to  breathe  so  lightly  as  never  to  be  heard  by  the  audi- 
ence." 

It  is  easy  to  see  what  an  immense  part  the  art  of  breath- 
ing plays  in  elocution.  The  rules  for  taking  breath  are,  in 
fact,  the  only  rules  that  we  must  never  violate.     The  actor, 


TAKING  BREATH.  41 

once  fairly  started  on  a  veliement  passage,  whirled  away  by 
passion,  anger,  grief,  may  forget  the  laws  of  punctuation, 
may  treat  commas  and  periods  as  disrespectfully  as  if  such 
.very  necessary  elements  in  the  art  of  printing  never  existed, 
may  dash  madly  through  a  field  of  \Yords  as  wild  and  as 
headstrong  as  a  runaway  horse,  but  one  thing  he  must  not 
do  —  he  must  never  run  himself  out  of  l)reath.  He  may 
indeed  pretend  to  lose  his  breath,  and  no  doubt  often  does 
so  with  decided  effect;  but  a  true  actor  never  has  a  readier 
stock  of  breath  on  hand  than  when  he  seems  to  have  com- 
pletely run  himself  out  of  it. 

All  his  rules  on  this  subject  Talma  reduced  to  one  strik- 
ing maxim : 

^* Every  artist  that  lets  himself  run  out  of  breath  is  noth- 
ing more  than  mediocre. ' ' 

Here  you  may  no  doubt  object,  and  say:  the  art  of 
breathing  is  of  course  all  very  well  for  actors,  but  now  the 
question  concerns  not  acting  but  reading. 

My  reply  is :  this  talent  is  even  more  necessary  to  the 
reader  than  to  the  actor.  We.  must  never  forget  that  the 
actor,  no  matter  how  long  or  important  his  part  may  be, 
has  always  his  breathing  spells,  his  moments  of  suspension, 
and  can  easily  rest  himself  while  the  others  are  speaking ; 
the  very  gestures  even  by  which  he  accompanies  his  words 
assist  his  voice  in  giving  these  words  their  true  and  full 
value.  But  the  reader  not  unfrequently  reads  for  hours 
without  a  single  interruption,  and  the  motionlessness  of 
his  body  compels  him  to  rely  for  the  proper  effect  on  his 
voice  alone.  If  you  take  all  this  into  consideration,  you 
will  hardly  say  that  the  art  is  useless  which  teaches  him  to 
husband  this  priceless  treasure,  breath,  a  plentiful  supply 
of  which  can  alone  carry  him  unexhausted  and  uninjured 
to  the  very  end  of  his  career. 
4* 


42  THE  ART  OF  READING 

While  on  this  subject,  I  will  just  call  your  attention  tc 
a  little  experiment  in  the  science  of  economy  as  applied 
to  breathing.  Take  a  lighted  candle  and,  standing  pretty 
close  to  it,  sing  the  note  do.  The  light  is  hardly  affected. 
But,  instead  of  a  single  note,  sing  the  whole  octave,  and 
you  will  see  how  at  every  note  the  light  flickers  and  trem- 
bles. Well,  Delle  Sedie^^,  the  singer,  often  ran  up  and 
down  the  whole  gamut  without  making  the  light  quiver 
once.  How  so?  you  will  naturally  ask.  By  simply  never 
allowing  more  breath  to  escape  than  was  absolutely  neces- 
sary to  emit  the  note ;  the  air,  employed  in  forming  the 
note,  had  too  much  to  do  to  become  wind :  to  form  the 
sound  gave  it  sufficient  employment. 

Now,  on  the  contrary,  what  do  you  do — .1  mean,  of 
course,  what  do  you  and  I  do  ?  We  waste  the  wind,  we 
scatter  it  right  and  left,  we  fritter  away  our  store. 

Our  own  elocution  rule  against  this  prodigality  is  a  good 
one,  and  it  is  so  easily  remembered  that,  with  a  slight 
change,  it  might  be  profitably  extended  far  beyond  the 
field  of  mere  elocution  : 

Never  in  any  action  of  our  lives  should  we  expend  7nore 
force  than  is  absolutely  necessary  to  accoinplish  it.  All  the 
emotions  of  the  soul  are  treasures.  Let  us  always  carefully 
economize  them^  until  the  moment  comes  to  employ  them  to 
advantage. 

How  many  of  us  use  up  in  little  pets  of  impatience,  in 
little  puerile  acts  of  peevishness  and  irritation  that  invalu- 
able treasure  —  anger — so  sacred,  so  forcible,  so  powerful 
when  it  can  be  called  indignation  ! 

A  few  concluding  observations  may  be  useful  to  the 
student  of  reading.  If  you  desire  to  inhale  and  exhale 
freely  and  without  much  effort,  accustom  yourself  to  using 
a  high  seat.     Doubled  up  in  an  arm-chair,  you  can  never 


TAKING  BREATH.  43 

breathe  from  the  base  of  your  lungs.  I  will  even  add,  sit 
up  straight.  A  stooping  man  can  never  breathe  properly, 
and  as  often  as  you  can,  keep  your  back  supported.  Often 
and  often,  when  reading  in  public  and  beginning  to  feel 
somewhat  fatigued  both  in  brain  and  voice,  I  manage  to 
cool  the  one  and  to  rest  the  other  by  simply  lifting  my 
head  gently  and  stretching  myself  a  little  backwards  over 
my  chair.  The  proper  balance  is  instantly  re-established, 
my  lungs  resume  their  easy  play,  and  my  head  feels  as 
clear  and  as  easy  as  ever. 


CHAPTER  V. 

A  PRACTICAL  LESSON. 

THE  art  of  taking  breath  is  so  important  that  I  do  not 
like  to  quit  the  subject  without  giving  you  what  may 
be  called  a  practical  lesson.  I  hope  you  will  find  it  useful 
and  instructive,  as  it  certainly  is  curious  and  even  unique. 

Madame  Talma ^'^  had  obtained  an  immense  reputation 
as  Cassandra  in  Lemercier's*"  well-known  tragedy  oi  Aga- 
memnon. 

In  her  '^  Memoirs,"  in  order  to  give  her  readers  an  idea 
of  the  conscientious  care  with  which  she  prepared  that  part 
even  in  the  slightest  particulars,  she  transcribes  a  page  or 
two  from  her  note-book.  These  remarks  of  hers  I  wish 
you  to  examine. 

After  quoting  a  long  passage  in  full,  fifteen  lines,  she 
takes  each  phrase  separately,  and  checks  it  off  with  a  note 
as  follows : 

Tu  n'  en  crois  pas  le  Dieu  dontje  suis  inspiree. 

(Thou  dost  not  believe  in  the  God  by  whom  I  am  inspired.) 

Note.  Here  no  more  being  required  to  complete  the 
sense,  I  can  take  a  full  breath. 

A  V  oracle  trop  vrai,  par  ma  bouche  dicte, 
(To  the  most  true  oracle  dictated  by  my  lips,) 
Note.   Here  only  a  quarter  breath,  the  sense  being  sus- 
pended. 

//  attacha  le  doute  et  VincredulitL 

(He  would  yield  nothing  but  doubt  and  incredulity.) 

Note.   Meaning  complete,  full  breath. 

44 


A    PRACTICAL    LESSON.  45 

Amantc  d*  Apollon, 
(Though  beloved  of  Apollo,) 

Note.   Quarter   breath,  this   being   only  a  preparation 
for  what  is  to  follow. 

a  sa  flamme  immortelle 
(to  his  immortal  flame)    * 
Note.   To  breathe  here  insensibly,  and  so  facilitate  the 
delivery  of  the  rest  of  the  sentence. 

Depuis  que  ma  froideur  se  montra  si  rede  lie, 
(My  coldness  having  proved  too  rebellious,) 
Note.  A  quarter  breath,  to  separate  it  from  what  fol- 
lows, naturally  but  not  too  coldly. 

Ce  Dieu 

(The  God) 

Note.  Breath  insensible. 

me  retira  son  favorable  appui, 
(withdrew  from  me  his  favorable  regards,) 
Note.    Quarter  breath. 

II  m^ accabla  des  maux  que  je  pleure  aujourd^hui; 
(And  overwhelmed  me  with  evils  that  I  am  now  bewailing ;) 
Note.    Half  breath,  the  sense  being  nearly  complete. 

Mes  yeux 
(My  eyes) 

Note.   Insensible  breath,  so  as   to  be   able  to  manage 
the  rest  of  the  sentence  with  ease. 

ont  vu  perir  ma  f ami  lie  immolee. 
(have  seen  my  whole  family  doomed  to  destruction.) 
Note.    Half  breath,  to  bring  out  fully  the  succeeding 
reflexion. 

Que  suis-je  ? 
(What  am  I  now  ?) 

Note.  A  half  breath. 


46  THE  ART  OF  READING. 

Une  ombre  errante  aux  cnfers  appelee. 
(A  flitting  ghost  so  on  to  wander  on  the  Stygian  shore.) 
Note.  A  half  breath,  not  to  crowd  the  images. 

Z'  heure  fatale  appro che  ; 
(The  fatal  hour  draws  nigh;) 

Note.  A  full  breath,  to  manage  the  transition. 

Adieu,  fleuves  s acres, 
(Sacred  streams,  adieu !) 
Note.  A  quarter  breath,  to  separate,  but  not  too  abruptly^ 
the  following  apostrophe. 

Ondes  du  Simois  ! 
(Waters  of  the  SimoTs !) 
Note.  Quarter  breath. 

Sur  vos  bords  riverh, 
(On  your  treasured  shores^ 
Note.  Half-quarter  breath,  to  mark  the  incidental  phrase. 

Vous  ne  me  verrezplus, 
(Never  again  shall  you  see  me,) 

Note.  Breath  insensible. 

comme  en  nos  jojirs  propices, 
(as  in  those  happy  days,) 
Note.  Breath  insensible,  to  maintain  all  the  strength  re- 
quired for  the  rest  of  the  sentence. 

Parer  d,e  nceuds  de  fleurs 
(Decking  with  garlands  gay,) 
Note.   Insensible  breath. 

V  autel  de  sacrifices  ; 

(the  sacrificial  altar;) 
Note.  Full  breath,  the  meaning  being  complete.     Be- 
sides, a  little  time  is  required  for  passing   naturally  to  a 
new  idea. 


A  PRACTICAL   LESSON.  47 

Et  ma  voiXf 

(And  my  voice,) 

Note.  Insensible  breath. 

chez  les  morts,  ou  bientotje  descends, 
(among  the  dead  where  I  presently  shall  be,) 
Note.  Half-quarter  breath,  on  account  of  the  inversion. 

Au  bruit  de  V  Achiron 

(With  the  wailing  flow  of  the  Acheron) 

Note.  Half-quarter  breath,  so  as  to  maintain  the  voice 
in  all  its  energy  to  the  very  last  words. 

melera  ses  accents. 

(will  mingle  its  sadder  accents.) 

Many  will  no  doubt  skip  this  chapter  as  useless,  perhaps 
senseless,  but  to  others  it  will  suggest  ideas  fertile  as  well 
as  novel. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

PR  O NUNC  I  A  TION. 

FROM  the  world  of  sounds  let  us  now  pass  to  the  world 
of  words.     We  left  off  at  the  vowels  ;  suppose  we  try 
to  unite  them  with  the  cpnsonants. 

The  consonants  are  the  solid  framework  of  the  word ; 
they  are  its  bones.  From  the  consonants  we  can  recon- 
struct the  word  itself,  just  as  Cuvier  used  to  reconstruct  the 
animals. 

It  is  the  intimate  union  between  the  vowels  and  the  con- 
sonants that  constitutes  pronunciation.     There  is  no  such 
hing  as  pronouncing  a  consonant  by  itself,  and  even  the 
vowel,  though  it  forms  the  sound  that  we  emit,  does  not 
foriii  the  word  that  we  pronounce. 

On  the  clearness  of  our  pronunciation  depends  the  clear- 
ness of  our  discourse.  In  fact,  too  much  cannot  be  said  of 
good  pronunciation.  It  is  the  main  point  in  our  delivery ; 
on  it  depends  the  very  life  of  our  words.  Of  pronunci- 
ation therefore  we  should  know  the  precise,  the  exact  rules. 
The  rules  touching  the  vowels  are  indeed  simple  enough ; 
in  fact  they  may  be  all  reduced  to  a  single  one :  give  your 
voivels  the  intonation  accepted  in  Paris. 

With  regard  to  the  vowel  sounds  Paris  is  a  merciless 
despot,  and  admits  of  no  appeal.  Provincial  France, 
especially  in  the  south,  almost  always  gives  the  vowels  a 
twang  that  to  Parisian  ears  borders  on  the  ridiculous.  Of 
this  I  could  give  you  many  a  striking  example  ;  one  must 
be  sufficient. 

48 


PRONUNCIATION.  '     49 

Only  a  short  time  ago,  one  of  our  most  eminent  orators, 
in  an  attack  on  some  minister  or  other,  displayed  a  nerve, 
a  fiery  impassioned  eloquence  seldom  before  equalled,  cer- 
tainly never  surpassed.  All  at  once  what  should  be  heard 
in  the  midst  of  one  of  his  ringing  sentences  but  ^^Chambre 
hotte^^  instead  of  haute;  pretty  soon  ^^fantommes'^  was 
heard  instead  of  ^^fantomeSj^^  and  lastly  ^^en?iees^^  for 
^^annees.^'  People  begin  to  look  around  and  smile,  even 
some  little  coughs  were  heard ;  the  flow  of  the  discourse 
was  interrupted,  and  its  general  effect  decidedly  injured. 
But,  instead  of  being  an  orator  of  the  first  rank,  suppose 
the  gentleman  to  be  one  of  only  moderate  ability,  or  a 
stranger  whose  faults  the  public  would  not  be  over  anxious 
to  excuse,  would  not  grins,  and  whispers,  and  even  jeering 
laughter  have  been  likely  to  greet  every  new  appearance 
of  the  fatal  vowel  ?  Would  the  orator's  arguments  have 
been  listened  to  ?  No ;  nothing  but  his  accent  would 
be  regarded.  The  very  best  efforts  of  his  unquestioned 
talents  would  have  hardly  gained  him  anything  like  a 
patient  hearing. 

Within  the  last  few  days,  a  young  man  from  the  prov- 
inces, full  of  talent  and  not  without  a  spark  of  real 
genius,  begged  me  to  give  him  a  few  hints  on  the  art  of 
reading  in  public.    . 

"Let  me  hear  you  recite  one  of  Fontaine's  fables,"  was 
my  reply. 

He  began  : 

^^Du pahiis  d^unjeu7ie  lapin " 

\  inly  he  pronounced  it 

^^Du pdlais  (funjeune  Idpin " 

I  stopped  him  right  off. 

"  First  go  and  learn  the  proper  sound  of  the  ^'s,"  said 
I ;  "  then  we  shall  see  what  else  may  be  done." 
5  D 


50  THE  ART  OF  READING. 

Everywhere  but  at  Paris  will  you  find  this  endemic  and 
epidemic  alteration  or  rather  peculiar  sound  of  the  vowels. 
Sometimes  it  is  the  e^  sometimes  the  o,  and  sometimes  the 
u;  but  it  is  always  a  vowel  that  is  disfigured.  In  Paris 
even,  the  laboring-classes  and  the  people  generally  of  infe- 
rior education  often  give  the  vowels  a  vulgar  sound ;  how 
often  do  we  hear  chaquin,  for  instance,  instead  of  chacun  ) 
If  you  ever  intend  to  read  in  public,  therefore,  you  cannot 
be  too  careful  in  practising  yourselves  beforehand  in  giving 
each  vowel  its  proper  intonation.  Remember  that  a  short 
accent  wrongly  used  for  a  long  one,  or  a  circumflex  for  an 
acute,  is  a  misfortune  quite  sufficient  in  itself  to  spoil  the 
best  sentence. 

As  to  the  consonants,  the  art  of  pronouncing  them  per- 
fectly is  the  art  of  articulating  them  perfectly.  There  is 
no  art  more  useful,  but  it  is  one  that  is  by  no  means  easy 
of  acquirement.  Few  people  possess  from  nature  perfect 
powers  of  articulation.  With  some  it  is  too  strong,  with 
others  too  weak,  with  many  indistinct.  These  defects 
can  be  remedied  by  systematic  labor,  and  by  that  alone. 
How?  you  naturally  ask.  Well,  here  is  one  way,  very  in- 
genious and  effective,  and  yet  extremely  simple  and  emi- 
nently practicable.  You  wish,  let  us  suppose,  to  confide 
a  secret  to  a  friend ;  but  you  are  afraid  of  being  over- 
heard, the  door  being  open  and  somebody  listening  in  the 
next  room.  What  would  you  do?  Walk  up  to  your  friend 
and  whisper  the  secret  into  his  ear?  Not  at  all.  You 
might  be  caught  in  the  act,  and  so  excite  suspicion.  What 
should  you  do?  I  will  tell  you,  and,  in  doing  so,  I  quote 
the  exact  words  of  that  master  of  masters,  Regnier : 

"You  face  your,  friend  exactly,  and,  pronouncing  your 
words  distinctly  but  in  an  under-breath,  you  commission 
your  articulations  to  convey  them   to  your  friend's   eyes 


PRONUNCIATION.     •  5I 

rather  than  to  his  ears,  for  he  is  as  carefully  watching  ho\^ 
you  speak  as  he  is  intently  listening  to  what  you  say.  Ar- 
ticulation, having  here  a  double  duty  to  perform,  that  of 
sound  as  well  as  its  own  peculiar  function,  is  compelled  as 
it  were  to  dwell  strongly  on  each  syllable  so  as  to  land  it 
safely  within  the  intelligence  of  your  hearer." 

This  is  an  infallible  means  of  correcting  all  the  defects 
and  faults  of  your  articulation.  It  is  at  once  an  exercise 
and  a  test ;  if  you  don't  articulate  well,  your  friend  will 
not  understand  you.  After  a  very  few  months'  steady 
practice  at  this  exercise  for  a  few  hours  a  day,  you  will 
find  that  your  most  obdurate  articulatory  muscles  become 
flexible  as  well  as  strong,  that  they  rise  elastically  and  re- 
spond harmoniously  to  every  movement  of  the  thought  and 
to  every  difficulty  of  the  pronunciation.* 

The  part  played  in  reading  by  articulation  is  very  great. 
It  is  articulation,  and  articulation  alone,  that  gives  clear- 
ness, energy,  passion,  vehemence.  So  great  is  its  power 
that  it  can  fully  compensate  for  a  feeble  voice  even  before 
a  large  assembly.  Actors  of  the  first  order  have  been  al- 
most without  a  voice.  Potier"^  had  no  voice.  Monvel*^ 
the  famous  Monvel,  had  no  voice,  he  had  not  even  teeth ! 
But  his  audience  never  lost  a  word,  and  never  did  artist 
produce  a  more  pathetic  effect.  How  ?  By  the  perfection 
of  his  articulation. 

Andrieux^  was  one  of  the  most  finished  readers  I  ever 
heard.  His  voice  was  worse  than  weak;  it  was  feeble, 
ragged,  husky.     How  did  he  win  such  triumphs  in  spite 

*  Regnier's  method  is  in  fact  the  one  usually  employed  in  teaching 
the  deaf  and  dumb  to  speak.  The  master  pronounces  the  words  before 
them  with  his  lips,  tongue,  and  teeth  —  no  sound,  no  voice,  nothing 
but  a  strongly  accented  articulation.  The  deaf-mute  reads  the  word 
as  it  issues  noiselessly  from  the  master's  lips. 


52  THE  ART  OF  READING. 

of  such  serious  drawbacks?  Splendid  articulation  again  j 
By  making  you  listen  to  him  he  made  you  hear  him.  His 
incomparable  articulation  made  not  to  listen  a  matter  of 
impossibility. 

Sometimes  a  few  of  the  resources  of  articulation  are  re- 
vealed by  a  fortunate  hoarseness.  Bouffe  **  was  playing  one 
of  his  great  creations,  Pere  Grandet,  in  the  Miser's  Daugh- 
ter. At  one  of  the  most  affecting  points  in  the  play,  where 
the  old  miser  suddenly  discovers  that  he  is  robbed,  the 
actor  began  to  cry  and  lament  as  usual,  but,  all  at  once 
his  voice  failed  him,  every  sound  expired  on  his  lips,  and 
there  he  was,  compelled  to  recite  his  words  actually  in 
dumb  show  !  What  was  the  consequence  ?  He  was  actu- 
ally more  natural,  more  affecting,  and  far  more  impressive 
by  being  compelled  to  make  distinct  articulation  supply 
the  place  of  indistinct  sound  ! 

Without  a  voice,  of  course,  we  cannot  speak,  but  the 
voice  alone  is  so  far  from  being  sufficient  in  elocution  that 
to  many  readers,  orators,  and  actors  the  very  copiousness, 
fullness,  and  richness  of  their  organ  are  likely  to  become 
rather  an  inconvenience  than  an  advantage.  Unless  they 
are  extremely  careful  in  their  articulation,  the  word  is 
swamped  in  the  sound.  The  vowels  swallow  up  the  con- 
sonants. These  gentlemen  speak,  read,  and  recite  with  so 
much  loudness  and  resonance  that  it  is  often  as  difficult  to 
hear  what  they  say  as  it  is  to  catch  the  words  of  an  orator 
holding  forth  in  a  hall  of  bad  acoustic  properties. 

At  times  too  a  silly  fashion  suppresses  the  articulation. 
It  is  not  a  hundred  years  ago  since  the  Parisian  dandies  sup- 
pressed the  r.  Almost  as  listless  as  the  cockney  "swells" 
of  London,  who  to-day  say  laud  for  lord,  and  pawk  for 
park,  vewy  for  very  and  wipe  for  ripe,  they  never  sounded 


PR  O  NUNC  I  A  TION  5  3 

the  r  at  the  end  of  a  syllable  or  before  a  consonant.  An 
old  frequenter  of  the  Theatre- Fr ant; ais^^  tells  me  he  remem- 
bers as  many  as  three  distinct  modes  of  articulation  capri- 
ciously affected  by  our  Parisian  fops. 

A  sensible  man  has  one  mode  of  articulation  and  one 
only,  namely :  always  to  pronounce  his  words  in  such  a 
manner  as  to  be  readily  understood,  but  never  in  such  a 
ma?iner  as  to  excite  remark. 
5* 


CHAPTER  VII. 

SOME  PECULIAR  DEFECTS  IN  ARTICULATION. 

BESIDES  the  general  defects  of  indistinctness,  mispro- 
nunciation, weakness  or  harshness  of  voice,  etc.,  there 
are  other  imperfections  in  articulation  which  cannot  be 
passed  by  unnoticed.  They  are  chiefly  three:  lisping, 
ughing  (there  is  no  English  word  for  grass eyement,  a  thick 
pronunciation  of  the  r  rather  peculiar  to  Frenchmen),  and 
stuttering. 

Lisping  is  pronouncing  s  like  th  in  the  word  that;  it  pro- 
ceeds from  allowing  the  tongue  to  pass  the  teeth  when  we 
pronounce  s.  It  is  sometimes  the  result  of  an  organic  de- 
fect, but  it  springs  oftenest  from  a  bad  habit  confirmed  by 
custom.  The  worst  feature  in  lisping  is  that  it  gives  an  air 
of  silliness  to  our  most  serious  moments.  Here  is  a  case  in 
point.    • 

In  his  younger  days  Regnier  was  assigned  the  part  of  a 
simpleton  in  some  play  or  other.  Of  how  he  should  get 
through  such  a  role  with  anything  like  success  he  had  not 
the  faintest  idea,  and  all  his  reflexions  on  the  subject 
ended  in  nothing  practicable.  He  was  almost  in  despair, 
when,  happening  to  call  into  some  store  one  day,  he  saw  a 
purchaser  there  lisping  so  outrageously  that  the  attendants 
had  all  they  could  do  to  keep  their  faces  straight. 

*'The  very  man  I  want !  "  says  Regnier  to  himself;  "that's 
the  model  I  have  to  copy ! ' ' 

It  was  a  most  happy  thought.     His  imitation  of  a  lisper 

54 


SOME  PECULIAR  DEFECTS.  55 

was  so  natural  and  at  the  same  time  judicious  that  hia 
success  as  a  simpleton  was  immense. 

Even  this  little  anecdote  should  be  enough  to  convince 
you  that  if  inclined  to  this  defect  you  should  get  rid  of 
it  as  soon  as  possible.  The  task  is  by  no  means  difficult. 
You  have  only  to  practise  pretty  regularly  and  for  some 
time,  giving  s  its  own  sound  by  pressing  the  top  of  your 
tongue  against  the  inside  of  the  lower,  not  the  upper,  front 
teeth.  This  will  accustom  the  tongue  to  keep  within  pre- 
cise bounds ;  and  custom  will  soon  become  second  nature. 

The  r  is  mispronounced  in  several  ways.  English  ex- 
quisites, as  already  remarked,  sound  it  somewhat  like  the 
English  w ;  they  say  wing  for  ring  and  wubber  for  rubber. 
Many  English  and  American  people  too,  who  are  too  sen- 
sible to  be  exquisites,  mispronounce  the  r  by  hardly  pro- 
nouncing it  at  all ;  they  say  wu'  Id  and  lau^ d  for  world  3.nd 
lord,  imitating  unconsciously  the  negroes  of  the  Southern 
States.  The  French  mispronunciation  of  the  r  is  different 
altogether.  It  comes  from  viciously  rendering  the  r,  not 
with  the  tip  of  the  tongue,  as  they  should  do,  vibrating  it 
quickly  against  the  palate,  but  by  lazily  pressing  the  root 
of  the  tongue  against  the  throat.  To  pronounce  the  r  well 
we  must  strike  the  edge  of  the  palate  close  to  the  teeth 
with  the  tip  of  the  tongue.  To  do  it  very  well  we  must, 
as  we  say,  roll  the  r.  There  is  no  denying  that  it  is  a  dif- 
ficult letter  to  pronounce,  and  one  of  the  last  that  children 
succeed  in  mastering.  The  defect,  therefore,  is  extremely 
common  in  France.  Almost  every  Parisian  mispronounces 
his  r's  in  spite  of  himself;  the  Marseillians  are  still  worse, 
though  it  must  certainly  be  admitted  that  the  people  of 
South  France  generally  pronounce  the  troublesome  letter 
exceedingly  well. 

One  of  the  inconveniences  of  this  vicious  utterance  is 


56  THE  ART  OF  READING. 

to  make  your  language  dull,  heavy,  and  too  full  of  dis 
agreeable  guttural  sounds ;  another  is  to  completely  dis  • 
qualify  you  from  singing  an  Italian  song.  Italian  ears 
abominate  this  French  cacophony.  They  cannot  bear  it. 
Alizard^^,  a  celebrated  opera  singer,  possessing  one  of  the 
finest  bass  voices  I  ever  heard,  was  obliged  to  decline  a 
splendid  engagement  in  Italy  simply  because  his  r's  always 
came  from  his  throat.  Imagine  his  despair.  But  an  actor 
cured  him  as  he  had  cured  himself.  By  what  means? 
By  the  application  of  an  idea  of  Talma's,  who  had  him- 
self labored  under  the  same  trouble.  The  two  letters 
d  and  /,  formed  at  the  end  of  the  tongue,  are  easily  and 
naturally  pronounced  by  everybody.  Talma's  idea  was 
first  to  pronounce  these  two  letters  rapidly  and  alter- 
nately ;  as  de  te,  de  te,  etc.  Then  by  degrees  joining  / 
to  them,  he  pronounced  the  new  combinations  also  rapidly 
and  alternately,  dre  tre,  dre  tre^  etc.  By  this  contrivance 
it  struck  him,  that  he  could  fish  up  the  letter  r  from  the 
depths  of  the  throat  where  it  seemed  to  prefer  keeping 
itself;  that  he  could  compel  it,  as  it  were,  to  answer  the 
call  of  its  companions  inviting  it  to  the  dance.  Imagine 
a  young  girl  —  excuse  the  oddness  of  the  comparison  —  a 
timid,  shrinking  young  girl,  hiding  herself  in  a  corner  of 
the  ball-room,  but  called  out  by  her  companions,  who  drag 
her  forcibly  and  merrily  into  the  middle  of  the  circling 
throng.  Soon,  however,  one  friend  slips  away,  then 
another,  and  another,  so  that  at  last  our  modest,  timid, 
shy  last  comer  finds  herself  unconsciously  dancing  and 
dancing  well  without  the  protection  of  any  participating 
companions.  That  is  exactly  what  Talma  did.  He  first 
dropped  the  d  and  then  the  /;  instead  of  saying  dre  tre, 
dre  ire,  he  said  re  re,  re  re ;  and  kept  on  doing  this  so 
persistently  that  at  last  the  r,  having  been  well  accustomed 


SOME  PECULIAR  DEFECTS.  57 

to  vibrate  with  the  others,  had  no  difficulty  in  vibrating  all 
alone. 

A  well-known  actor  of  the  day  amused  me  very  much 
once  by  telling  me  about  another  contrivance,  an  inven- 
tion of  his  own,  by  which  he  had  cured  himself  of  this 
defect.  He  was  young,  not  without  talent,  but  one  day 
he  found  himself  deeply  immersed  in  two  very  different 
pursuits,  both  equally  difficult,  though  by  no  means 
equally  interesting.  His  thoughts  by  day  and  his  dreams 
by  night  were  almost  equally  engrossed  in  an  endless  chase 
after  two  objects  —  the  rolling  r,  and  the  hand  of  a  young 
lady  whom  he  loved  to  distraction.  Six  months'  hardest 
and  most  determined  efforts  seemed  to  be  quite  as  fruitless 
in  one  direction  as  in  the  other;  the  rolling  r  and  the 
lovely  creature  were  both  equally  obstinate.  At  last,  one 
evening,  after  some  hours'  tenderest  supplications  and  pro- 
testations, he  succeeded  in  touching  the  stubborn  heart  — 
the  young  lady  smiled  and  said  "yes."  Intoxicated  with. 
joy  he  leaves  the  room  he  knows  not  how,  tears  down- 
stairs four  steps  at  a  time,  and  cries  aloud  as  he  passes  the 
janitor's  room : 

*'Pull  the  rrope,  if  you  please,  and  open  the  doorr !  " 

Oh,  glorious  surprise !  The  r's  in  rope  and  door  rang 
out  as  pure  and  as  true  and  as  vibrating  as  any  that  had 
ever  come  from  the  richest  Italian  organ  !  But  a  sudden 
chill  strikes  him  —  Perhaps  it  is  only  a  chance  blow,  a 
lucky  shot !     Try  again  ! 

"Rrope,  if  you  please  !  " 

The  same  splendid  success  !  No  doubt  possible  !  The 
rolling  r  is  his  own  at  last !  And  to  whom  is  he  indebted 
for  the  inestimable  fortune  ?  To  his  own  dearly  loved  one 
and  to  nobody  else  !  It  was  the  transports  of  successful 
love  that  had  wrought  the  miracle !     But  would  it  last  ?. 


58  THE  ART  OF  READING. 

When  his  emotions  would  have  subsided,  would  that  fat, 
greasy,  lazy,  detested  r  turn  up  again  ? 

This  was  the  question  he  asked  himself  continually  as  he 
hurried  homewards  along  the  silent  street.  But  by  way  of 
answering  it,  and  mortally  afraid  of  losing  his  conquest,  he 
kept  continually  repeating  in  a  loud  voice  : 

'*  Rrope,  if  you  please  !  Pull  the  rrope,  if  you  please  ! 
The  doorr,  the  rrope,  if  you  please  !  The  rrope,  the 
doorr,  if  you  please  !  " 

Suddenly  a  new  incident.  As  he  turned  a  street-corner, 
what  should  jump  out  of  the  sewer  but  an  enormous  rat. 
A  rat !  Another  r  !  He  strings  it  on  at  once  to  his  pre- 
vious conquests,  and  unites  all  three  into  one  glorious  whole  ! 

"A  rrat !  a  rrope  !  a  doorr  !  Pull  the  rrope  !  Open  the 
doorr  !  A  great  rrat  !  A  strrong  rrope  !  An  enorrmous 
rrrat!" 

He  never  went  home  till  morning.  How  the  r's  rolled 
out,  and-  the  streets  rang  again  during  the  rest  of  that  event- 
ful night  !  He  marched  as  if  in  a  grand  triumphal  proces- 
sion !  He  had  gained  two  magnificent  victories.  The 
adored  Parisian  fair  one,  and  the  treasured  Italian  r  were 
now  his  own  forevermore  ! 


nmm  of 
Kmmm  of  dramatic  art 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

STUTTERING. 

STUTTERING  is  a  more  serious  defect,  more  stubborn, 
more  rebellious,  and  of  a  more  particular  nature.  It 
is  a  failing  at  once  material  and  spiritual,  mechanical  and 
intellectual.  It  no  doubt  often  proceeds  from  some  mal- 
conformation  —  when  of  course  nothing  is  left  for  us  but 
to  apply  to  the  doctors ;  but  no  doubt  too  it  often  proceeds 
from  lack  of  intellectual  culture,  and  then  some  attempt  at 
its  remedy  falls  somewhat  within  our  own  province. 

People  often  stammer  and  stutter  because  their  minds  are 
stammering  and  stuttering,  because  they  themselves  don't 
exactly  know  what  they  mean  or  what  they  want,  because 
they  are  too  timorous,  or  too  angry,  or  in  too  much  of  a 
hurry.  Impatience,  timidity,  want  of  precision  in  ideas  — 
these  are  the  usual  causes  of  stuttering  and  stammering, 
but  these  failings  are  far  from  being  without  a  remedy. 
Accustom  yourself  to  speak  slowly,  with  deliberation,  only 
when  you  are  complete  master  of  yourself,  when  you  have 
made  up  your  mind  definitely  on  what  you  are  going  to  say. 

A  distinguished  singer,  whom  I  could  easily  name,  stam- 
mers slightly  when  he  speaks,  though  he  never  stammers 
when  he  sings.  Why  so  ?  Simply  because  when  he  sings 
he  is  sure  of  his  ground.  As  long  as  his  words  are  united 
to  his  notes,  previous  practice,  labor,  study,  custom,  have 
made  him  a  complete  master  of  his  voice  and  utterance ; 
but  the  instant  he  begins  to  speak,  the  natural  oversensi- 

59 


60  THE  ART  OF  READING. 

tiveness  of  his  disposition  attacks  him,  overcomes  him,  and 
surrenders  him  up  an  easy  prey  to  all  his  uncertainties  of 
pronunciation.  The  artist  vanishes,  the  man  remains,  and 
the  stammerer  as  before  turns  *' right  side  up." 

As  for  physical  or  material  stuttering,  arising  from  some 
natural  defect  or  impediment,  it  is  only  the  doctors,  as  1 
have  just  stated,  that  can  undertake  to  cure  it. 

Though  the  stutterer  generally  finds  a  difficulty  before 
all  the  letters  without  exception,  he  often  finds  some  fat 
more  refractory  than  others ;  the  rest  he  may  overcome, 
but  these  always  bring  him  to  a  dead  halt,  just  as  certain 
obstacles  always  stop  timid  horses.  On  this  point  I  can 
give  you  a  little  anecdote. 

About  twenty  years  ago,  in  conjunction  with  Scribe  *^  I 
wrote  a  play,  Doigts  de  Fee  (Fairy  Fingers),  in  which  one 
of  the  characters  was  to  be  a  stutterer.  He  was  to  be 
comical,  to  create  merriment,  but  by  no  means  to  be  a 
buffoon,  and  even  at  times  we  wanted  him  to  be  decidedly 
affecting.  Got,  of  the  ThMfre-Fran^ais,  accepted  the 
part  without  hesitation,  but  no  sooner  had  he  begun  to 
study  it  than  he  found  himself  in  a  state  of  some  embar- 
rassment. A  mere  pendant  to  Brid^ oison^^  was,  of  course, 
not  to  be  thought  of;  but  how  could  he  succeed  in  excit- 
ing interest,  emotion,  pathos,  and  at  the  same  time  always 
maintain  the  comically  ridiculous  side  of  his  character? 

One  day,  however,  he  arrives  at  the  rehearsal  in  great 
spirits. 

"All  right!"  said  he  to  me.  "I've  caught  the  idea! 
I  shall  stutter  only  before  two  consonants,  d  and  /.  A 
little  reading  up  of  the  subject  has  put  me  on  the  track. 
I  think  the  idea  admirable.  It  completely  delivers  me 
from  the  intolerable  bore  of  continually  stuttering,  besides 
rescuing  my  part  from  an  oppressive  monotony.     I  retain 


STUTTERING.  6 1 

of  the  imperfection  just  enough  to  give  the  character  a  spice 
of  piquancy,  to  impart  a  zest  of  comicality  to  the  whole 
personage  without  ever  rendering  it  either  absurd  or  ridic- 
ulous. Only,  my  dear  author,"  he  added  gaily,  "the 
arrangement  must  undoubtedly  give  you  somewhat  more 
trouble.  You  will  have  to  enrich  my  part  with  more  ^'s  and 
/'s,  especially  in  such  passages  as' I  shall  mark  for  you." 

I  caught  the  idea  at  once.  Got  was  quite  right.  His 
part  was  a  splendid  success ;  in  my  own  opinion  it  is  one 
of  the  most  original  of  all  this  great  artist's  conceptions. 

Is  organic  stuttering  curable  ?  I  doubt  it.  The  doctors 
have  tried  their  hands  at  it  often  enough,  but  an  instance 
of  genuine  success  I  have  never  seen.  To  slight  improve- 
ments, no  doubt,  intermittences,  apparent  cures,  everybody 
can  point,  but  who  has  ever  witnessed  a  real  cure  ? 

Every  day  in  the  papers  we  can  see  any  quantity  of  most 
wonderful  feats  in  this  line  performed  by  certain  well- 
known  qua —  I  mean  by  certain  eminent  physicians.  But 
here  is  a  fact  to  which  I  can  testify  from  my  own  personal 
knowledge. 

When  still  somewhat  young,  I  was  present  one  evening 
at  a  ball  given  by  a  fashionable  doctor  who  enjoyed  a  great 
reputation  in  this  particular  specialty,  and  who  perhaps  had 
really  rendered  some  service  to  the  art  of  speech  by  his 
theoretical  researches. 

"  Sir,"  said  I,  to  one  of  my  neighbors,  "will  you  oblige 
me  by  being  my  vis-d-vts  in  the  next  quadrille?  " 

**Ce  — ce  —  certainly,  sir,  with  g — g  —  great  pleasure." 

"Ah!"  said  I  to  myself,  "the  gentleman  stammers  a 
little." 

We  are  at  the  supper-table. 

"Sir,"  said   I   to  another  young   fellow,   "would   you 
mind  passing  me  an  ice?" 
6 


62  THE  ART  OF  READING, 

*'N  —  n  —  not  at  all !  "  was  the  reply.  "Here  it  —  it 
—  it  is." 

"Stammerer  nmnber  two,"  was  my  silent  comment. 
Turning  around,  I  find  myself  actually  touching  an  old 
and  well-remembered  schoolmate. 

"Oh!  Leg  —  leg  —  legouve  !  "  he  exclaims.  "  De  — 
de  —  de  —  delighted  to  isee  you  !  You  remem  —  mem  — 
member  how  f —  f —  f —  fearfully  I  stut  —  tut  —  tut  —  tut- 
tered  at  college  ? ' ' 

"Well,  yes." 

"  Co  —  CO — congratulate  me  !  I  've  come  to  Co  —  co  — 
CO — Columbat  (our  entertainer),  p  —  p  —  put  myself  under 
his  ca  —  care,  and  now  I  am  co  —  completely  cu  —  cu  — 
cu  —  cured  !  "  • 

This  little  experience  of  mine  has  ever  since  rendered  me 
somewhat  incredulous  when  I  hear  of  stutterers  who  stutter 
no  more. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

PUNCTUATION. 

TO  conclude  what  we  have  to  say  on  the  first  portion  of 
our  subject,  the  material  part  of  reading,  we  must  now 
occupy  ourselves  a  little  with  what  may  be  called  punctua- 
tion. 

The  tongue  punctuates  as  well  as  the  pen. 

One  day,  Samson,  sitting  at  his  desk,  sees  himself  ap- 
proached by  a  young  man  apparently  pretty  well  satisfied 
with  himself. 

**  You  wish  to  take  reading  lessons,  sir?  " 

"Yes,  Monsieur  Samson." 

"  Have  you  had  some  practice  in  reading  aloud  ?  " 

"  O  yes.  Monsieur  Samson,  I  have  often  recited  whole 
passages  from  Corneille  and  Moliere." 

"In  public?" 

"Yes,  Monsieur  Samson." 

"With  success  ?  " 

"Well,  yes.  Monsieur,  I  think  I  may  flatter  myself  that 
far." 

"Take  up  that  book,  please.  It  is  Fontaine's  Fables. 
Open  it  at  the  *  Oak  and  the  Reed. '  Let  me  hear  you  take 
a  turn  at  a  line  or  two." 

The  pupil  begins : 

^^The  Oak  one  day,  said  to  the  Reed " 

"  That 's  enough,  sir  !  You  don't  know  anything  about 
reading !  " 

63 


64  THE  ART  OF  READING. 

"It  is  because  I  don't  know  much,  Monsieur  Samson," 
replies  the  pupil,  a  little  nettled,  "it  is  precisely  because 
I  don't  know  much  that  I  've  come  to  you  for  lessons.  But 
I  don't  exactly  comprehend  how  from  my  manner  of  read- 
ing a  single  verse " 

"Read  the  line  again,  sir." 

He  reads  it  again  : 

^^The  Oak  one  day,  said  to  the  Reed " 


"  There  !     You  can't  read  !     I  told  you  so  !  " 

"But " 

"But,"  interrupts  Samson,  cold  and  dry,  "but  why  do 
you  join  the  adverb  to  the  noun  rather  than  to  the  verb  ? 
What  kind  of  an  Oak  is  an  Oak  one  day?  No  kind  at  all ! 
There  is  no  such  tree  !  Why,  then,  do  you  say :  '  the  Oak 
one  day,  said  to  the  Reed '  ?  This  is  the  way  it  should  go : 
'■  the  Oak  (comma)  one  day  said  to  the  Reed.*  You  under- 
stand, of  course?  " 

"  Certainly  I  do,"  replies  the  other,  a  new  light  break- 
ing on  him.  "  It  seems  as  if  there  should  be  an  invisible 
comma  after  Oak  /^' 

"You  are  right,  sir,"  continues  the  master.  "Every 
passage  has  a  double  set  of  punctuation  marks,  one  visible, 
the  other  invisible  ;  one  is  the  printer's  work,  the  other  the 
reader's." 

"  The  reader's?     Does  the  reader  also  punctuate?  " 

"  Certainly  he  does, "  quite  independently  too  of  the 
printer's  points,  though  it  must  be  acknowledged  that 
sometimes  both  coincide.  By  a  certain  cadenced  silence 
the  reader  marks  his  period;  by  a  half  silence,  his  comma; 
by  a  certain  accent,  an  interrogation ;  by  a  certain  tone, 
an  exclamation.  And  I  must  assure  you  that  it  is  exclu- 
sively on  the  skillful  distribution  of  these  insensible  points 


PUNCTUATION,  6$ 

that  not  only  the  interest  of  the  story,  but  actually  its 
clearness,  its  comprehensibility,  altogether  depends." 

Written  punctuation  being  subject  to  change  from  cen- 
tury to  century,  spoken  punctuation  must  vary  likewise. 
Suppose  a  tragic  poet  of  the  present  day  wrote  Corneille's 
famous  qu'il  mourut,  (he  should  die,).  Wouldn't  he  put 
one  or  two  immense  exclamation  points  after  it  ?  What 
has  Corneille  put  ?  A  little  comma — nothing  more.  But 
that  same  little  comma  tells  us  a  great  deal.  It  shows  that 
Corneille  had  never  intended  the  phrase  to  be  one  of  tre- 
mendous energy,  but  rather  the  brave  old  patriot's  invol- 
untary cry,  instantly  corrected,  however,  by  the  succeeding 
verse,  which  Voltaire  considered  weak,  simply  because  he 
was  unable  to  relish  its  exquisite  delicacy.  "  He  should 
have  died ! "  cries  the  Roman.  But  adds  the  poor  Father: 
— "  Or  at  least  derived  strength  and  courage  from  a  noble 
despair ! ' ' 

Dots  in  succession,  or  whatever  the  printers  call  them, 
(.  .  .  .)  are  of  an  invention  comparatively  modern.  You 
will  not  find  a  single  example  of  them  in  the  seventeenth 
or  the  eighteenth  century.  Even  to  this  day  they  are  sel- 
dom employed  in  English ;  and  in  French  they  are  mostly 
confined  to  dramatic  works.  They  were  especial  favorites 
of  Scribe's.  They  correspond  perfectly  with  the  hurried 
movement  of  his  pieces  .  .  .  their  agitation  .  .  .  their  fev- 
erishness  .  .  .  they  show  a  man  to  be  hard  pushed  for  time 
.  .  .  hard  pressed  by  action  .  .  .  carried  away  by  emotion 
...  his  words  and  ideas  thronging  too  rapidly — they  are 
the  punctuation  of  the  suggestive.  To  punctuate  thus  in 
reading  is  an  art  in  which  very  few  reach  a  high  profi- 
ciency. 

I  think  you  have  seen  by  this  time  that  I  was  pretty  cor- 
6*  E 


66  THE  ART  OF  READING, 

rect  in  calling  Reading  an  art,  an  art  too  that  requires 
pretty  precise  rules  for  its  successful  management.  To 
these  rules  I  have  called  your  attention.  We  have  spoken 
of  how  to  emit  the  voice,  how  to  take  breath,  and  we  have 
not  forgotten  to  make  some  remarks  on  pronunciation,  ar- 
ticulation, and  punctuation  — that  is  to  say,  we  have  touched 
on  everything  that  is  concerned  in  the  first  or  the  material 
or  mechanical  division  of  the  Art  of  Reading. 

We  now  come  to  the  second  or  the  spiritual  or  intellect- 
ual division. 


PART    II. 


Practical  Application  of  Reading. 


ELOQUENCE,  PROSE,  POETRY. 


CHAPTER  I. 

READERS  AND    ORATORS. 

WE  suppose  now  that  the  mechanical  education  of  out 
pupil  is  everything  that  it  should  be.  His  voice  has 
become  agreeable,  flexible,  and  homogeneous.  His  upper, 
lower,  and  medium  tones  are  completely  under  control  and 
can  be  judiciously  intermingled  at  will.  He  can  take  and 
emit  breath  without  being  noticed  by  the  audience.  He 
pronounces  correctly  and  with  perfect  purity.  His  articu- 
lation is  clear  and  distinct.  His  defects  in  utterance,  if 
he  had  any,  are  all  removed  or  corrected.  He  punctuates 
as  he  reads.  His  enunciation  is  neither  hurried,  nor  broken, 
nor  unequal,  nor  drawling.  Finally,  rarest  quality  of  all, 
he  never  lets  his  last  syllables  drop,  always  remembering 
that,  without  a  clear  and  distinct  utterance  of  the  last  syl- 
lable, he  can  never  be  solidly  or  perfectly  comprehensible. 

Does  all  this  render  him  a  finished  reader?  By  no 
means.  The  most  it  can  do  is  to  make  him  a  correct 
reader.  Certainly,  without  fatiguing  either  himself  or 
others,  he  can  read  the  report  of  some  business  committee, 
a  discourse  before  some  learned  body,  an  important  paper 
on  physical  science,  an  essay  on  some  question  in  political 
economy,  some  labor^pus  explanation,  some  carefully  pre- 
pared legal  document. 

The  ability  to  do  even  so  much  well  is  no  doubt  an 
important  and  substantial  advantage;  it  establishes  an 
intimate  connexion  between  Reading  and  nearly  all  the 

69 


70  THE  ART  OF  READING. 

liberal  professions,  and  can  consequently  rank  it  in  the 
number  of  highly  useful  and  almost  indispensable  require- 
ments. 

Still,  if  you  expressed  a  doubt  regarding  the  claim  of 
even  such  ability  to  the  distinction  of  an  art,  I  would  not 
say  you  were  wrong.  Even  such  ability  would  not  consti- 
tute an  art.  To  be  worthy  of  such  a  name,  Reading  must 
rise  to  the  dignity  of  being  able  to  reproduce  works  of 
undoubted  art,  must  become  the  interpreter  of  the  master- 
pieces of  genius.  For  this,  mere  correctness  is  far  from 
being  sufficient ;  talent  too  is  indispensably  necessary. 

Can  all  men  who  read  passably  become  first-class  read- 
ers ?  All !  No.  Can  all  become  readers  of  a  certain 
fair  grade?  No.  Can  all  learn  to  become  readers  with 
the  same  facility  and  in  as  short  a  time?  No.  But  can 
all  readers  of  some  natural  ability  aspire  to  become  what 
are  called  good  readers  ?  Yes.  They  can  become  really 
good  readers,  still,  however,  in  strict  proportion  with  their 
innate  intelligence  and  peculiar  gifts.  Those  organiza- 
tions of  first-rate  order,  endowed  with  highly  exceptional 
qualities,  will  no  doubt  find  that  their  labors  in  their  own 
rich  soil  bear  the  richest  harvest.  But  the  others,  without 
quite  reaching  the  first  rank,  will  come  pretty  near  it. 

Genius  is  heaven-born,  but  talent  is  often  acquired. 
Genius  reinforced  by  talent  produces  a  Talma. 

In  what  does  this  especial  talent  consist  ?  On  what 
rules  is  it  based  ? 

Saint-Marc  Girardin,  as  we  already  know,  reduces  all 
these  rules  to  one,  and  that  one  of  a  simplicity  clear  to 
the  dullest  comprehension  :    "  Read  as  you  speak." 

Girardin  is  not  the  only  able,  witty,  but  unthinking, 
man  who  not  only  entertains  this  opinion  but  accepts  it 
with  such  conviction  as  to  consider  it  an  axiom,  a  dogma, 


READERS  AND    ORATORS.  7 1 

an  unquestioned  radical  principle.  But  the  phrase,  though 
containing  some  flavor  of  truth,  must  not  be  taken  without 
a  good  deal  of  restriction. 

Read  as  we  speak  ?  Certainly,  if  we  only  speak  well. 
But  which  of  us  does  speak  well?  Don't  the  majority 
of  us  speak  badly  ?  Are  not  our  ears  continually  assailed 
with  stammerings,  hesitancies,  mispronunciations,  misap- 
plication of  terms,  offences  against  the  simplest  grammar 
rules,  not  to  speak  of  drawling,  precipitancy,  and  nasal 
twang  ? 

Mademoiselle  Mars  was  fond  of  telling  us  about  a  gen- 
tleman friend  of  hers  who,  though  he  spoke  with  a  dread- 
ful nasal  twang^  flattered  himself  that  he  had  quite  a  genius 
for  the  stage.  One  day  he  asked  her  to  listen  to  his  reci- 
tation of  a  passage  from  Athalie,  so  that  she  could  form 
an  opinion  as  to  his  style  of  delivery.  She  bore  the  inflic- 
tion pretty  well  for  some  time,  but  at  the  end  of  the  sixth 
rerse  she  interrupted  with  loud  applause. 

*'  Bravo  !  my  dear  sir  !  "  she  exclaimed  as  if  transported 
with  admiration;  **what  depth  of  emotion!  What  no- 
bility of  expression  !  There  is  to  be  sure  a  little  de- 
fect in  your  pronunciation,  but  next  time  I  've  no  doubt 
I  shall  find  it  all  perfectly  corrected."  And  she  sent 
the  nuisance  away  quite  charmed  with  his  critic,  with 
everybody,  and  most  of  all  with  himself. 

Besides  we  must  remember  that  ordinary  conversation 
admits  and  even  demands  a  certain  negligence  in  our  pro- 
nunciation, a  sort  of  carelessness  in  our  utterance,  a  kind 
of  voluntary  remissness  or  heedlessness  which,  though  per- 
haps a  grace  in  the  speaker,  would  certainly  be  a  defect 
in  the  reader.  To  talk  as  we  read  would  generally  be 
pedantry;  to  read  as  we  talk  would  often  be  vulgarity. 
Examples  of  what  I  mean  are   perhaps  more  striking  in 


72  THE  ART  OF  READING. 

tlie  French  than  in  most  other  languages.  Take  a  single 
instance.  Certain  syllables,  like  the  possessive  adjectives 
mesy  tes,  ses,  are  generally  pronounced  in  conversation  as 
if  they  bore  the  acute  accent.  We  hear  young  people 
continually  saying :  reprens  done  th  livres.  But  if  you 
transferred  such  a  pronunciation  into  your  reading,  you 
would  hurt  every  delicate  ear. 

A  gentleman,  who  prided  himself  considerably  on  the 
correctness  of  his  pronunciation,  came  one  day  to  Lafon*', 
the  celebrated,  but  somewhat  overdignified,  tragedian,  to 
take  some  lessons  in  reading.  In  all  probability,  however, 
he  was  less  thirsty  after  instruction  than  desirous  of  hear- 
ing himself  complimented  by  the  great  artist.  By  way  of 
graceful  deference  to  his  teacher,  he  undertook  to  read  a 
piece  from  one  of  Lafon's  most  successful  impersonations, 
Orosmanes. 

In  a  few  moments  he  was  declaiming  the  line : 

"  Reprends  ta  liberte,  remporte  Us  richesses !  " 

**Tais  —  richesses!  "  interrupted  Lafon,  correctingly. 

"  That 's  what  I  said,  was  n't  it  ?  " 

"  No.     You  said:  tes  richesses  !  " 

The  reader  made  the  proper  correction,  and  resumed  : 

"A  Tor  de  ces  ran^ons,  joins  mis  justes  largesses " 

^^Mais  —  justes,"  cried  Lafon. 

''  Really,  I  thought  I  said " 

*'  You  said  :   mes  justes. '  * 
The  amateur  continued : 

"  Au  lieu  de  dix  chrdtiens  que  je  dois  t'accorder, 
Je  t'en  veux  donner  cent  —  tu  peux  lis  demander " 

''Laisr 


READERS  AND    ORATORS.  73 

The  reader  began  to  feel  a  little  flustered,  but  continued: 
"  Qu'ils  aillent  sur  th  pas " 

By  this  time,  however,  the  reader  was  too  much  hurt 
to  stand  it  any  longer ;  impatiently  closing  the  book,  he 
observed  with  some  asperity  : 

**I  pronounce  these  words,  sir,  as  everybody  else  pro- 
nounces them." 

*' Everybody  else,"  replied  Lafon,  in  his  grandest  and 
most  impressive  air,  "maybe  everybody  else,  but  art  is  art. 
Reading  is  reading,  and  the  rules  for  reading  are  not  the 
rules  for  conversation." 

In  these  remarks  Lafon  may  have  been  a  little  too  dicta- 
torial, but  fundamentally  he  was  perfectly  right,  and  the 
conclusion  I  wish  you  to  arrive  at  is  this:  conversation 
has  unquestionably  a  naturalness,  a  true  inflexion,  a  va- 
riety, an  easy  utterance,  all  highly  useful,  and  always  to 
be  sought  after  in  reading ;  but  it  is  only  these  undeniably 
good  qualities,  these  very  best  qualities,  of  conversation 
that  we  should  imitate  in  reading,  very  carefully  avoiding 
the  others,  if  we  aim  to  be  at  once  natural,  true,  correct, 
and  impressive. 

Another  remark  falls  in  here  quite  naturally.  People  in 
general  are  too  apt  to  confound  the  two  words  to  talk  and 
to  speak,  employing  each  term  indiff'erently  for  the  other 
as  if  they  both  meant  the  same  thing.  But  they  really 
mean  two  very  diff"erent  things.  There  are  people  who 
talk  very  well,  even  charmingly,  but  who  at  the  same  time 
speak  abominably.  Do  you  want  a  proof?  Just  go  to 
almost  any  lawyer's  office,  and  enter  into  conversation  with 
him.  His  delivery,  simple,  natural,  effective,  leaves  noth- 
ing to  be  desired.  Follow  him  into  court  and  listen  to 
7 


74  ^^^   ART  OF  READING. 

him  as  he  addresses  the  ** Gentlemen  of  the  jury'*  and 
launches  off  into  his  carefully  prepared  speech.  He  is  no 
longer  the  same  man.  You  listen  in  surprise.  What  has 
become  of  all  the  fine  qualities  that  have  just  now  so 
charmed  you  ?  They  have  vanished  into  thin  air.  He  had 
been  natural,  he  is  now  emphatic ;  his  talking  .tones  had 
been  true,  his  speaking  tones  are  false  —  you  know  you 
may  speak  false  just  as  you  may  sing  false.  Many  a  law- 
yer of  my  acquaintance  speaks  in  court  exactly  as  if  he 
was  imitating  Lawyer  V Intimt  in  ^^The  Pleaders.'"  Got, 
Coquelin,  and  Regnier  imitate  these  lawyers  so  well  that 
you  think  these  lawyers  are  imitating  Regnier,  Coquelin, 
and  Got.  Got's  lawyer  every  theatre-goer  has  by  heart ; 
Coquelin  has  three  of  them  on  his  string ;  and  as  for  Reg- 
nier, he  took  for  his  model  a  well-known  barrister  who 
always  introduced  into  his  criminal  speeches  such  a  stylish 
grace  of  delivery,  such  a  poetic  charm  of  pronunciation, 
that  you  absolutely  thought  you  were  listening  to  Mademoi- 
selle Mars  playing  Araminta. 

*^ Gentlemen  of  the  jury,"  he  would  say  in  his  most 
simpering,  finical,  Laura-Matilda  tones,  ''the  dreadful 
crime,  on  the  point  of  being  unrolled  before  your  horror- 
stricken  gaze,  transpired  on  the  sixth  of  March  at  day- 
break. The  morning  was  truly  lovely.  A  game-keeper, 
passing  through  the  forest,  suddenly  finds  himself  on  the 
brink  of  a  small  lake.  And  on  the  brink  of  a  small  lake 
what  does  he  behold?  A  man's  body  covered  with 
wounds  and  still  bleeding!"  Regnier's  mimicry,  par- 
ticularly of  the  words  un  corps-z-ensanglante,  was  irresisti- 
ble. Li  another  part  of  the  same  play  he  brought  down  the 
house  just  as  wildly  when  he  said  with  inimitable  drollery : 

"Gentlernen!  everything  that  is  capable  of  overwhelm- 
ing the  guilt-stricken  wretch  with  horror  ! " 


READERS  AND   ORATORS.  75 

We  must  not,  however,  single  out  the  lawyers  as  the 
only  offenders ;  the  preachers  ar»  no  better,  often  worse. 
Many  and  many  a  clergyman  I  have  heard  preach  during 
my  lifetime,  but  I  mrist  say  that  I  have  never  heard  more 
than  one  who  spoke  as  I  think  he  should  have  spoken,  that 
is,  at  once  naturally  and  affectingly.  Of  course  I  don't 
give  his  name  ;  it  would  be  merely  gratuitously  provoking 
the  others. 

You  must  now  see  that  if  you  want  to  read  well  you 
must  learn  how  to  speak  well ;  but,  curiously  enough,  you 
must  also  know  that  there  is  only  one  way  of  learning 
to  speak  well,  and  that  is  by  reading  well.  This  requires 
some  explanation. 

On  the  morning  of  some  great  battle,  the  general 
mounts  his  horse.  But  what  is  the  use  of  his  being  on 
horseback  unless  he  can  ride  well?  Obliged  to  change 
place  incessantly,  to  be  in  every  part  of  the  field  almost 
at  the  same  time,  to  see  with  his  own  eyes  the  results  of 
certain  movements,  and  to  be  on  hand  to  give  new  orders, 
he  must  have  an  animal  perfectly  docile  in  every  respect, 
and  just  as  much  under  subjection  as  his  own  limbs.  If 
he  was  thinking  all  the  time  how  he  could  manage  his 
horse,  he  could  never  manage  his  army;  he  must  there- 
fore be  a  double  master  —  a  war-master  and  a  riding- 
master —  at  once  a  Jomini^**  and  a  D'Aure". 

This  is  precisely  the  case  with  the  speaker:  his  voice 
is  his  horse,  while  his  speech  is  his  army.  If  he  desires 
faithful  service  during  the  action,  he  must  have  rendered 
himself  perfect  master  of  both  beforehand.  But  we  can 
never  learn  how  to  arrange  our  thoughts  and  our  sentences 
at  the  same  time  and  by  the  same  process.  One  distracts 
the  other.  Elocution  studies,  properly  so  called,  and  voice 
exercises  are  really  most  efficacious  when  most  closely  con- 


76  THE  ART  OF  READING. 

nected  with  the  ready-made  ideas  of  others.  In  such  a 
case  we  can  surrender  ourselves  up  to  them  completely. 
Having  only  one  thing  to  do  at  a  time,  we  have  the  best 
possible  opportunity  of  learning  how  to  do  it  well. 

A  friend  of  mine  once,  a  colleague  member  of  the  Assem- 
bly ^^,  a  young  fellow  full  of  talent,  of  knowledge,  of  ambi- 
tion, expected  to  make  his  present  position  a  stepping-stone 
to  the  Cabinet.  One  morning  he  told  me  he  was  to  deliver 
an  elaborate  address  in  the  House  that  day,  and  begged  me 
to  come  and  listen.     I  went  and  listened. 

**Well?"  he  asked,  as  we  strolled  homeward  that  even- 
ing. 

"Well,  my  dear  friend,  to  be  candid  with  you,  I  don't 
think  you  are  bound  for  the  Cabinet  this  time." 

"No?     Why  not?" 

"Because  you  can't  speak." 

"How  I  can't  speak?"  he  asks,  evidently  offended. 
"My  discourse,  as  I  have  been  well  assured " 

"Oh!  your  discourse,  as  a  discourse,  was  really  excel- 
lent, full  of  good  sense,  of  justice,  and  now  and  then  not 
without  touches  of  original  and  decided  wit.  But  what 
was  the  good  of  it  all  if  we  could  not  hear  the  half  of  what 
you  said  ? ' ' 

"  What !  Not  hear  what  I  said  ?  Why,  even  at  the  very 
beginning  I  spoke  so  loud  and  so  strong  that  —  that " 

" — That  you  can  almost  say  you  screamed !  In  a  quarter 
of  an  hour  your  voice  was  as  hoarse  as  a  drum." 

"I  don't  deny  I  felt  a  little  husky,  but " 

"Wait  till  I  finish.  You  spoke  not  only  too  loud  but 
also  too  fast." 

"Too  fast!  — Well  —  However — It  is  quite  possible  that 
towards  the  end  I  may  have  hurried  up  a  little  to  save  time.  '* 

"  But  you  did  not  save  time,  you  lost  time,  that  is,  you 


READERS  AND  ORATORS.  7/ 

made  every  minute  feel  like  two.  Nothing  makes  a  passage 
appear  too  long  so  much  as  beginning  it  in  too  great  a 
hurry.  The  listener  is  put  on  the  alert  —  he  sees  from  your 
own  hurry  to  get  through  that  you  yourself  think  the  piece 
too  long.  Unwarned  he  might  perhaps  have  never  noticed 
it,  but,  prematurely  put  on  his  guard,  he  becomes  impatient 
long  before  the  proper  time." 

*'  There  is  something  undoubtedly  true  in  what  you  say," 
observed  my  friend;  "I  certainly  found  the  reins  slipping 

through  my  fingers  towards  the  close but  how  am  I  to 

remedy  all  this?  " 

"  Nothing  simpler.    Take  lessons  from  a  reading  master. ' 

**  Do  you  know  one?  " 

**  Yes,  an  excellent  one." 

*' His  name?" 

**  Samson." 

**  What !     Samson  the  actor?  " 

"Yes." 

'*  Oh  !  I  can't  take  lessons  from  a  play-actor!  " 

**  Why  not?" 

"  Only  think  of  it !  A  Deputy  !  A  rising  statesman  ! 
I  should  never  hear  the  end  of  it,  once  it  got  into  the 
papers !  " 

"  There  I  must  say  you  are  quite  right  !  The  world  is 
so  confoundedly  stupid  that  a  man  is  mercilessly  laughed 
at  for  actually  doing  his  best  to  learn  his  business.  How- 
ever, it  need  not  get  into  the  papers." 

"  Of  course  you  would  never  mention  it." 

"Of  course,  nor  Samson  either.  I  can  promise  that 
sincerely. ' ' 

He  took  the  lessons.  Samson  made  my  friend /^j-^  him- 
self properly;  rendered  his  voice  flexible;  strengthened 
it ;  got  him  to  read  pages  and  pages  of  Bossuet  ^\  Massil- 
7* 


78  THE  ART  OF  READING. 

lon^*,  Bourdaloue^^  He  accustomed  him  to  begin  slowly 
and  with  a  low  voice.  Nothing  like  speaking  in  a  low 
voice  to  command  silence.  They  stop  talking  to  hear 
what  you  say,  and  they  end  by  listening.  Such  wise  les- 
sons bore  their  natural  fruit.  Within  six  months  my  young 
friend  was  a  Cabinet  minister,  not  a  great  minister  indeed, 
but  a  good  business  minister,  a  minister  always  to  be  found 
in  his  office,  a  minister  that  always  makes  a  point  of  read- 
ing whatever  he  signs.  He  represented  iii  the  Cabinet 
what  is  called  the  serious-sensible  element. 

Now  I  ask  of  you  to  profit  by  this  example.  Are  many 
of  you  likely  to  be  Cabinet  ministers  ?  That  I  don't  know, 
but  I  do  know  that  many  of  you,  as  professors  and  teach- 
ers, will  be  compelled  to  speak  at  least  an  hour  or  two 
every  day.  Several  of  you  will  present  yourselves  at  polit- 
ical meetings  as  candidates  for  the  legislature,  or  for  other 
offices  in  the  power  of  the  people.  Here,  as  you  know,  a 
good  deal  of  talking  has  to  be  done,  and,  as  everybody 
knows,  what  is  said  depends  pretty  much  for  its  importance 
altogether  on  the  manner  of  saying  it.  Prepare  yourself 
therefore,  young  man.  Arm  yourself  beforehand  for  the 
encounter.  Remember  that  you  can  rule  the  public  only 
on  condition  that  you  can  successfully  rule  yourself  when 
you  face  it.  And  this  you  can  never  do  unless  you  render 
yourself  complete  master  of  your  voice  ! 

To  render  yourself  a  complete  master  of  your  voice,  I 
see  no  better  way  than  to  take  an  elocution  teacher.  Bet- 
ter still,  take  two.  Besides  taking  the  regular  lessons  from 
one  professor,  if  we  want  to  understand  our  subject  thor- 
oughly, we  must  go  over  it  again  carefully  and  often  with 
a  rehearsing  teacher.  That  you  all  know.  But  in  the 
present  case,  the  rehearsing  teacher  must  be  the  pupil 
himself!    To  the  lessons  you  have  received,  unite  the  clos- 


READERS  AND   ORATORS.  75 

est  personal  attention  and  observation.  Study  everything 
that  can  give  instruction.  Watch  faces  as  well  as  listen  to 
voices.  Seek  after  true  intonations  almost  as  carefully  as 
you  seek  after  truth  itself.  Study  in  particular  the  accents 
and  the  enunciations  of  children. 

Here  a  singular  fact  strikes  us.  Children  are  splendid 
elocution  teachers.  How  true,  how  pure,  how  just  their 
intonations  !  Their  flexible  young  organs,  readily  accom- 
modating themselves  to  every  variety  of  sensation,  enable 
them  to  reach  more  daring  inflexions  than  the  ablest  actor 
would  ever  dream  of.  Have  you  ever  listened  attentively 
to  a  little  girl  telling  some  secret  that  she  has  discovered, 
describing  some  mysterious  scene  that  she  has  just  wit 
nessed?  Doesn't  she  remind  you  of  little  Louise  talking 
so  innocently  to  her  father  in  the  Malade  Jinaginaire'i 
She  imitates  every  voice.  She  reproduces  every  tone. 
You  see  the  personages  pass  before  you.  You  actually 
hear  them  talk  !  Well,  just  as  she  has  got  through  with 
her  story,  ask  her  to  read  the  very  same  little  Louise's  part 
in  Moliere,  or  a  few  o{  Joas's  verses  in  Athalie.  You  are 
astounded.  What  has  become  of  her  naturalnes^j  ^  Where 
are  those  tones  so  varied  and  so  appropriate  ?  You  hear 
nothing  but  the  sing-song,  tiresome,  stupid  monotony  so 
peculiar  to  the  reading  of  school  children.  These  great 
professors  of  elocution  have  not  the  first  idea  of  a  principle 
of  their  art ! 

As  an  example  just  in  point,  I  can  cite  an  instance  in 
my  own  experience  which  may  throw  some  light  on  the 
subject  in  hand. 

In  my  play  of  Louise  de  Lignerolles,  so  often  already 
alluded  to,  a  part  of  some  importance  had  to  be  taken  by 
a  little  girl.  It  was  given  to  a  pretty  child  of  ten,  very 
graceful  and   full  of  intelligence.     On  the  day  of  dress 


So  THE  ART  OF  READING, 

rehearsal  my  little  acti'ess  accomplished  wonders.  A  gen- 
tleman seated  near  me  applauded  her  rapturously,  and 
could  not  help  exclaiming  every  moment : 

"  How  perfectly  true  to  nature  the  little  thing  is?  How 
thoroughly  artless  !  How  beautifully  simple  !  It  is  easy 
enough  to  see  that  none  of  your  elocution  teachers  have 
ever  got  hold  oi  her !  " 

The  critic  was  fully  as  wrong  in  his  conclusions  as  critic 
can  well  be.  For  a  whole  month  I  had  hardly  done  any- 
thing else  but  teach  the  child  her  part,  word  by  word,  tone 
by  tone.  Was  the  part  one  above  her  age  ?  By  no  means. 
Some  of  the  very  tones  I  taught  her  I  had  actually  learned 
from  my  little  actress  herself.  Like  all  children,  when 
giving  way  to  her  emotions,  she  had  created  them  instinc- 
tively. But  the  instant  one  of  these  original  tones  came 
into  her  part,  the  instant  she  began  to  read  one  of  her  own 
characteristic  phrases,  her  naturalness  vanished  like  smoke. 
What  she  had  said  with  wonderful  grace  when  speaking  on 
her  own  account,  she  said  coldly  and  even  with  incorrect 
expression  the  moment  she  began  to  speak  for  another. 
In  fact,  it  cost  me  a  good  deal  of  time,  patience,  and 
labor  to  bring  her  back  to  what  she  really  was,  and  to 
make  her  learn  over  again  the  very  tones  that  she  herself 
had  taught  me. 

This,  I  think,  shows  pretty  clearly  how  much  of  an  art 
reading  is.  We  have  to  teach  it  even  to  those  from  whom 
we  ourselves  have  learned  it ! 

I  now  come  to  the  most  interesting  part  of  our  study  — • 
Reading  regarded  as  a  means  of  literary  appreciation. 


'•.r>C«3! 


PROPERTY  OF 
DEPMTf^EHT  OF  DRAMATIC  ART 


CHAPTER  II. 

READING  AS  A  MEANS  OF  CRITICISM. 

ONE  day,  after  a  long  conversation  with  my  friend  Sainte 
Beuve^^  in  which  I  had  fully  explained  all  my  viex^s  on 
the  subject,  my  companion  observed  : 

"At  that  rate  then  a  good  reader  should  be  a  good 
critic." 

"Undoubtedly,"  replied  I.  "Whether  you  intended 
it  or  not,  you  have  certainly  given  utterance  to  a  great 
truth.  For  in  what  does  a  reader's  talent  consist?  It 
consists  in  properly  and  justly  rendering  the  beauties  of 
the  work  which  he  undertakes  to  interpret.  Now  to  ren- 
der them  properly  and  justly,  he  must  understand  them 
fully,  and  here  comes  the  curious  part  of  the  question.  It 
is  only  in  consequence  of  his  attempts  to  render  these 
beauties  as  they  ought  to  be  rendered  that  he  succeeds 
in  understanding  them  as  they  ought  to  be  understood ! 
Reading  aloud  gives  us  a  power  of  analysis  to  which  we 
could  never  attain  by  reading  in  silence." 

Sainte  Beuve  asking  for  a  few  illustrative  examples,  I 
immediately  gave  him  as  a  strong  case  in  point  Racine's 
well  known  academical  discourse  on  Corrieille. 

With  this  famous  discourse  all  men  of  literary  culture 
are  intimately  acquainted.  One  passage  in  it  is  partic- 
ularly striking  —  the  comparison  between  the  state  of 
things  in  the  Theatre- Frangais  before  Corneille's  time  and 
after  it.     This   passage  I    had  often  read  in  silence   and 

F  8i 


82  THE  ART  OF  READING. 

always  with  very  great  admiration ;  but  one  day,  on  at- 
tempting to  read  it  aloud,  I  was  suddenly  stopped  short  Ijy 
a  difficulty  in  the  execution  so  great  and  so  strange  that  it 
set  me  at  once  a-thinking.  The  first  part  was  all  simple 
and  easy  enough,  but  the  second  part  seemed  heavy,  in- 
volved, and  almost  impossible  to  be  read  properly.  It 
seemed  to  be  dragged  after  Fontaine's  lumbering  stage- 
coach. It  consists  of  no  less  than  seventeen  printed  lines, 
and  these  seventeen  printed  lines  form  but  one  single 
sentence.  One  single  sentence  without  a  moment's  pause  ! 
No  period,  no  colon,  not  even  a  semicolon.  Nothing  but 
commas ;  while  interlacing  phrases,  succeeding  each  other 
continuously  and  springing  up  anew  at  every  turn  of  the 
sentence,  prolonged  it  unintermittingly  to  its  final  end, 
and  compelled  you,  though  panting  for  breath,  to  follow 
up  its  meaning  into  all  the  ramifications  of  its  winding 
sinuosities.  When  I  found,  myself  at  the  end  at  last, 
I  felt  somewhat  like  a  broken-winded  horse,  but,  as  I 
said  before,  the  very  strangeness  of  the  thing  set  me  re- 
flecting. 

"Why  in  the  world,"  I  asked  myself,  ''did  Racine  take 
the  trouble  to  compose  a  sentence  so  exceedingly  long, 
so  laboriously  complicated,  but  withal  so  artfully  fjut  to- 
gether?" 

My  eye  falls  again  on  the  first  part  of  the  passage. 
Hello  !  what  do  I  see  there  ?,  Absolutely  the  most  com- 
plete contrast !  Seven  sentences  in  nine  lines  !  Excla- 
mation points  everywhere !  Verbs  nowhere !  A  style 
abrupt,  dislocated !  Nothing  finished !  Nothing  but 
fragments,  chips,  shapeless  blocks  !  —  Ah  !  I  have  it ! 
I  utter  a  cry  of  joy  !     The  riddle  is  perfectly  clear  ! 

Wishing  to  represent  the  opposite  condition  of  the 
French  theatre  before  and    after    Corneille,    Racine    had 


READING  AS  A   MEANS   OE  CRITICISM.  83 

wanted  to  do  more  than  merely  describe  them  —  he  had 
painted  them !  To  bring  before  our  senses  as  well  as  our 
imaginations  what  he  calls  the  chaos  of  dramatic  poetry, 
he  purposely  employs  a  style  that  is  violent,  abrupt,  void 
of  art,  without  toning,  without  transition  !  But,  to  give 
us  a  visible  picture  of  the  stage  as  Corneille  had  created 
it,  he  constructs  one  long  sentence,  where  phrases  axe 
strung  on  phrases,  mutually  linked  together,  and  mutually 
sustaining  each  other,  where  everything  is  in  harmony, 
unity  and  totality,  where,  in  short,  everything  is  co-ordi- 
nated, subordinated  and  highly  elaborated.  Such  were 
Corneille's  tragedies  of  Polyeiictes  and  Rodoguna,  in 
which,  as  we  all  know,  the  author  prided  himself  on  the 
artful,  as  well  as  the  striking,  display  of  incident  and  the 
gradual,  as  well  as  the  powerful,  development  of  character. 

This  clue  once  in  hand,  I  took  up  the  passage  and  read 
it  over  again.  Suppose  you  read  it  for  yourself,  and  judge 
if  I  was  right. 

"When  Corneille  began  his  labors,  in  what  a  condition 
was  the  French  stage  !  How  disoiderly  !  How  irregular ! 
No  taste  !  No  true  idea  of  the  real  and  permanent  attrac- 
tions of  the  drama !  The  authors  as  ignorant  as  the 
spectators ;  the  subjects  mostly  extravagant  and  improba- 
ble; no  sketch  of  manners;  no  attempt  at  peculiarities 
of  character ;  the  language  even  worse  than  the  incident ; 
the  principal  ornament  vulgar  jokes  and  miserable  puns ; 
in  a  word,  every  rule  of  art,  not  excepting  even  those  of 
common  decency  and  propriety,  regularly  and  outrageously 
violated. 

"Into  this  infancy,  or  rather  into  this  chaos,  of  our 
dramatic  French  poetry,  Corneille,  after  having  lost  some 
time  in  looking  for  the  right  road,  after  waging  a  deadly 
encounter,  if  I  may  say  so,  with  the  bad  taste  of  the  timcs^ 


84  THE  ART  OF  READING. 

inspired  by  an  extraordinary  genius,  and  powerfully  stimu- 
lated by  a  profound  study  of  the  Greek  dramatists,  en- 
deavored to  infuse  some  order  by  introducing  good  sense 
on  the  stage,  not  bare,  cold,  unattractive  good  "sense,  but 
good  sense  accompanied  by  all  the  pomp  and  splendor 
of  which  our  language  is  capable,  and,  by  weaving  to- 
gether into  happy  union  the  startling  and  the  probable, 
he  soon  left  all  his  rivals  so  far  behind  him  that  the 
greater  number,  despairing  of  ever  being  able  to  cope 
with  him  successfully,  and  no  longer  even  daring  to  enter 
the  lists,  confined  themselves  to  railing  against  the  public 
voice  so  loudly  raised  in  his  favor,  and  to  endeavoring  in 
vain  by  their  shallow  discourses  and  silly  criticisms  to 
blacken  a  merit  to  which  they  themselves  could  never 
dream  of  aspiring." 

There  !  Is  not  that  enough  to  test  the  truth  of  my 
proposition  and  to  render  its  demonstration  irrefutable? 
To  get  the  true  sense  of  a  passage,  read  it  aloud.  Then 
it  shines  with  a  new  light.  Then  alone  the  author's  idea 
stands  completely  revealed  ! 

Shall  I  add  that  the  proper  reading  of  such  a  sentence 
as  this  presents  difficulty  enough  to  be  entitled  to  be  called 
a  lesson?  In  fact,  I  know  hardly  anything  more  trying 
and  therefore  more  really  useful  than  to  conduct  success- 
fully to  its  end  this  terribly  unwieldy  sentence  of  seventeen 
printed  lines.  No  resting  on  the  way,  remember ;  no  signs 
of  fatigue  or  absent-mindedness ;  always  showing  by  the 
winding  intonations  of  your  voice  that  the  sentence  is  not 
yet  ended,  and  sustaining  it  to  the  last  so  skilfully  and 
with  such  variety  of  expression  that  it  can  unroll  itself 
before  the  hearer's  understanding  m  all  its  amplitude  and 
majestic  flexibility ! 


READING  AS  A   MEANS   OF  CRITICTSM.  85 

That  day,  I  must  confess,  my  reading  studies  bore  some 
fruit,  and  I  redoubled  my  thanks  to  an  art  which,  by  com- 
pelling me  to  fully  understand  this  fine  passage  in  all  its 
bearings,  convinced  me  that  reading  aloud  was  the  only 
means  whereby  to  render  it  intelligibly  and  therefore  with 
proper  effect  either  to  ourselves  or  to  our  audience. 

But  I  was  indebted  to  our  art  for  a  pleasure  still  greater. 
Reading  aloud  enabled  me  to  comprehend  more  deeply 
and  appreciate  more  keenly  the  genius  of  our  two  greatest 
prose  writers,  Bossuet  and  Pascal  ^^ 


CHAPTER  III. 

BOSSUET  AND  PASCAL. 

IN  Brittany  last  year,  at  Arradon  on  the  shores  of  the 
picturesque  Morbihan,  I  was  spending  a  few  days  with 
tlie  afflicted  family  of  my  very  dear  and  much  lamented 
friend  Patin  who  had  died  only  a  few  months  before. 
The  best  way  to  soothe  a  sufferer's  grief  is  to  talk  to  him 
about  it  as  often  as  possible.  Every  one  of  those  lovely 
afternoons  I  used  to  collect  my  group  of  mourners  under 
the  shade  of  a  majestic  chestnut-tree,  and  there  in  full 
view  of  the  isle-studded  ''sea"  we  read  together  pas- 
sages from  the  great  writers  that  were  poor  Patin's  chief 
favorites. 

One  day,  after  a  powerful  and  affecting  passage  from 
Bossuet,  some  member  of  the  little  company  undertook  to 
read  a  letter  from  Pascal  on  homicide.  What  a  contrast ! 
What  an  exceedingly  different  impression  !  Precisely  as 
much  as  Bossuet  had  inspired  our  friends  with  enthusiasm, 
precisely  so  much  did  Pascal  chill  them,  I  may  even  say, 
so  much  did  Pascal  weary  them.  I  took  the  book  out  of 
the  reader's  hands,  observing  with  a  smile  : 

''What  a  fall  for  Pascal!  But  whose  the  fault?  Cer- 
tainly not  Pascal's,  and  hardly  that  of  the  listeners." 

"  Whose  then  ?  "  he  asked  pleasantly.     "  Mine?  " 

""The  reader's." 

*'  How  do  you  make  that  out?  " 

86 


BOSSUET  AND  PASCAL.  87 

**  Easily  enough :  you  simply  read  Pascal  as  you  had 
read  Bossuet." 

**  Well,  suppose  I  did  ?     Are  n't  they  both  —  ?  " 

"Yes,  they  are  both  sublime  authors;  they  both  write 
with  undoubted  genius ;  but  in  temperament  and  method 
both  are  diametrically  opposite.  Bossuet,  even  when 
writing  at  his  very  best,  is  only  speaking;  in  every  one 
of  his  lines  we  hear  the  tones  of  the  human  voice ;  in 
every  one  of  his  sentences,  however  long  or  labored  it  may 
be,  we  can  always  detect  the  breathing  and  the  movement 
of  speech ;  never  has  writer  been  more  of  a  painter  and 
more  of  a  poet.  But  painter  and  poet  are  both  fused  in 
dim  into  a  third  person,  dominating  over  them  all,  the 
orator ! 

"  In  Pascal,  on  the  contrary,  this  third  person  is  the  geo- 
metrician. Pascal  too  is  a  painter  and  a  poet.  But  though 
the  poet  and  the  painter  color  his  phrases,  it  is  the  geo- 
metrician that  constructs  his  sentences.  Bossuet's  sentences 
are  winged,  they  fly  like  an  eagle ;  Pascal's  sentences  are 
a  theorem,  and  develop  themselves  like  a  theorem :  they 
always  advance  but  never  run  !  Now,  Mr.  Reader,  what 
have  you  been  trying  to  do?  To  fly!  to  run!  nothing 
less  !  This  wonderful  style  of  Pascal's  you  have  actually 
succeeded  in  making  dull  and  heavy,  simply  because  you 
tried  to  make  it  light  and  airy  !  Here  !  Please  listen  for 
a  minute  or  two  while  I  endeavor  to  express  by  a  slight 
change  of  style  the  alluring  charms  of  a  writer  who,  though 
ever  eloquent,  is  never  an  orator  !  " 

Then  without  much  hurrying,  with  very  little  pausing,  I 
set  myself  to  represent  that  force  which  gains  new  strength 
as  it  progresses,  vires  acquirit  eundo,  like  a  squadron  of 
heavy  cavalry,  advancing  with  accelerated  motion,  and 
making  the  earth  tremble  under  the  continuous  pressure 


88  THE  ART  OF  READING. 

of  an   onward   movement,    heavy,   uninterrupted,    resist 
less ! 

My  proof,  I  need  not  say,  was  far  from  complete,  my 
efforts  as  a  reader  being  far  from  perfect,  but  I  had  the 
satisfaction  of  convincing  my  friends  of  the  truth  of  my 
observations  and,  when  the  reading  was  over,  we  all  bore 
away,  well  engraved  on  our  memories,  clearer,  better  de- 
fined and  more  correct  portraits  of  these  two  great  masters 
of  Ff  ench  prose. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

NOW  /READING  REVEALS. 

EVERY  rose  has  its  thorn.  Even  reading  aloud  is  not 
without  its  disillusions.  If  it  discovers  beauties,  it  de- 
tects faults  as  well.  As  Sainte  Beuve  has  phrased  it,  ''A 
reader  aloud  is  at  once  a  critic  and  a  judge."  Yes,  a  stern 
and  severe  judge,  with  an  eye  quick  to  alight  on  unsuspected 
weaknesses. 

What  wretched  discoveries  of  the  kind  have  I  fallen  upon 
myself  even  unawares !  How  many  writers  and  writings 
that  I  used  to  admire  passionately,  that  possibly  you  ad- 
mire passionately  now,  I  have  found  totally  unable  to 
stand  this  terrible  test !  A  French  phrase  describing  a 
self-evident  thing  says,  it  jumps  into  your  eyes;  it  would 
be  just  as  correct  to  say  it  jumps  into  your  ears.  Eyes 
hurry  hastily  over  the  page,  skipping  lightly  over  the  weak 
spots,  instinctively  avoiding  the  dangerous.  But  ears  catch 
everything.  Ears  make  no  skips  !  Ears  have  sensibilities, 
susceptibilities,  penetrations,  of  which  eyes  are  totally  in- 
capable !  The  little  word  which,  read  in  silence,  slipped 
past  us  unawares,  when  read  aloud,  suddenly  assumes  enor- 
mous proportions  !  The  expression  which  your  eye  had 
scarcely  noticed,  is  absolutely  shocking  to  your  ear  !  And 
the  more  numerous  is  the  audience  listening  to  the  reader, 
the  keener  and  more  sensitive  is  that  reader's  clairvoyant 
insight ! 

The  fact  is,  as  soon  as  a  reader  begins  his  discourse,  aD 
8*  89 


90  THE  ART  OF  READING. 

electric  current  is  instantly  established  between  him  and  hi? 
hearers,  a  current  of  mutual  reaction  and  mutual  instruc- 
tion. The  reader  by  enkindling  the  others  enkindles  him- 
self; he  blazes  in  their  reflected  light.  No  murmurs  of 
impatience,  no  mutterings  of  inattention  are  necessary  to 
gi-ve  him  warning.  A  certain  kind  of  silence  is  language 
enough  for  him.  Conscious  of  their  impressibility,  he  feels 
that  a  certain  passage  will  displease  them,  must  displease 
them,  long  before  he  comes  to  it  —  we  should  not  be  far 
out  if  we  said  that  his  critical  faculty,  thoroughly  aroused 
and  highly  excited  by  this  thrilling  contact  with  a  public 
audience,  has  really  become  a  kind  of  divination. 

Shall  I  confess  that  the  experiment  of  reading  aloud  one 
day  suddenly  destroyed  one  of  the  dearest  and  most  charm- 
ing of  my  youthful  enthusiasms  ?  A  writer  whom  I  had 
always  set  up  high  in  the  first  rank,  had  to  step  down  un- 
ceremoniously to  the  second.  I  admire  him  still ;  eloquent 
and  pathetic  I  shall  always  acknowledge  him  to  be,  but  his 
name  is  no  longer  on  the  list  of  my  great  gods.  It  is  to 
Massillon  that  I  allude. 

Massillon,  in  my  opinion,  has  a  magnificent  treasury  of 
words,  but  an  extraordinary  dearth  of  phraseology.  His 
vocabulary  is  truly  royal,  but  his  skill  in  employing  it  has 
little  variety  or  breadth.  Bossuet's  style  is  continually 
relieved  by  new  and  unexpected  turns  of  expression,  which 
stamp  every  sentence  with  a  peculiar  and  striking  cast  of 
countenance.  In  La  Fontaine ^^,  so  many  verses,  so  many 
different  styles  of  thought.  But  once  Massillon  hits  on  a 
certain  kind  of  sentence,  he  holds  on  to  it  with  a  death- 
grip,  page  after  page.  Like  a  horse-car  unable  to  leave 
its  tramway,  like  a  canal-boat  which  cannot  quit  its  canal, 
on  he  goes,  without  turning  an  inch  to  the  right  or  left, 
and  on  you  go  with  him.     What  is  the  consequence  ?     A 


HOW  READING  REVEALS.  9 1 

monotony,  that  at  last  palls  on  the  ear  and  actually  stops 
the  reader.  Besides,  even  the  splendid  profusion  of  his 
words  is  not  without  its  uniformity.  His  incomparable 
talent  of  setting  forth  a  single  thought  under  such  a  variety 
of  shapes  had  for  a  long  time  astounded  me,  dazzled  me. 
I  used  to  take  for  a  new  idea  what  was  nothing  but  the 
same  idea  presented  again  and  again  under  various  different 
forms.  But  reading  aloud  soon  convinced  me  that  there 
was  something  artificial  in  this  exuberant  display.  I  began 
to  feel  as  you  feel  at  one  of  those  pieces  where  the  same 
actor  pretends  to  represent  five  or  six  different  personages, 
whereas  in  reality  the  only  thing  changed  is  the  costume. 

Take  a  page  of  Saint-Simon^^  if  you  want  to  realize  more 
fully  the  idea  that  I  wish  to  convey.  He  too  repeats  the 
same  idea  under  twenty  different  shapes,  but  he  does  so  as 
a  clever  magician  turns  one  object  into  fifty  by  the  blazing 
reflection  of  dazzling  mirrors ;  he  does  so  with  the  fire  and 
heat  of  a  man  who,  under  the  influence  of  a  burning  im- 
pression, always  considers  his  expressions  too  feeble  to 
adequately  represent  his  ideas.  He  fights  and  struggles 
with  his  words  to  compel  them  to  express  what  he  means. 
He  whips  his  language,  spurs  it,  tortures  it,  drives  it,  over- 
loads it,  until  at  last  it  obeys  him  and  becomes  just  as  pas- 
sionate, fiery,  and  headlong  as  himself! 

I  have  often  tried  to  read  Saint-Simon  aloud,  but  never, 
I  must  acknowledge',  with  more  than  indifferent  success. 
[n  the  reading  line  I  know  of  no  harder  kind  of  work  or 
anything  at  the  same  time  more  interesting  than  a  lively, 
rough  and  tumble,  body  to  body,  tug  with  this  terrible 
giant.  It  is  Jacob's  struggle  with  the  angel.  You  are  sure 
to  be  conquered.  But  your  very  defeat  has  done  you  good; 
it  has  given  you  more  nerve  and  a  readier  confidence  in 
attempting  new  encounters. 


CHAPTER    V. 

A   DISILLUSION. 

PERHAPS  the  best  name  for  our  little  work  would  be : 
Memoirs  of  a  Reader.  Its  principles  and  chief  points 
are  certainly  presented  under  forms  of  my  own  personal 
experience,  and,  deriving  my  ideas  as  I  do  from  absolute 
realities,  I  endeavor  to  make  them  as  vivid  as  possible  by 
giving  in  detail  all  the  circumstances  to  which  they  are 
indebted  for  their  origin. 

Buffon^  says:  '*  Style  is  nothing  but  the  order  and  the 
movement  in  which  our  thoughts  run,"  and  this  definition 
embodies  one  of  the  fundamental  rules  of  the  art  of  read- 
ing. The  first  thing  therefore  to  be  done  by  a  reader, 
when  he  enters  on  the  study  of  a  new  piece,  is  to  look 
after  its  order  so  as  to  be  able  to  determine  its  movement 
—  movement  being  in  reality  no  more  than  animated 
order.  He  must  discover  the  plan  underlying  the  struc- 
ture, the  sketch  beneath  the  picture,  the  framework  be- 
neath the  edifice,  and  thus  arrive  at  the  great  original 
trace-lines. 

The  consequence  of  all  this  labor  is  perfectly  natural. 
The  reader's  insight  becomes  amazing.  No  one  penetrates 
more  deeply  into  the  secrets  of  the  composition.  Many  a 
defect  in  unity,  many  a  fault  in  harmony,  which  the  gloss 
of  execution  and  the  glare  of  detail  keep  completely  con- 
cealed from  the  eye  of  the  multitude,  force  themselves 
irresistibly  on  the  notice  of  the  reader.     Of  this  truth  I  had 

92 


A  DISILLUSION,  93 

but  a  partial  glimpse  for  a  long  time,  but  it  was  brought 
before  me  at  last  in  all  its  power  with  an  evidence  that 
really  there  was  no  gainsaying. 

Delaunay,  of  the  Comedie  Fran^aise^,  favored  me  with 
his  company  one  day  at  dinner.  During  the  evening  he 
said,  in  the  course  of  conversation  : 

"  Have  you  any  objection  to  my  attempting  before  your 
friends  a  little  recitation  in  poetry  that  I  have  never  given 
elsewhere  ?  It  pleases  myself  so  much  that  I  have  studied 
it  with  delight ;  I  think  I  have  discovered  new  effects  in  it, 
but,  not  having  as  yet  put  it  to  the  test,  I  am  in  some 
doubt." 

"  To  what  piece  do  you  allude?"  I  asked. 

**Well,  it  is  a  piece  that,  I  acknowledge,  has  little  in 
lommon  with  a  pleasant  company  assembled  together  after 
a  lively  dinner.  Still,  even  the  spice  of  danger  tempts 
me. 

**What  is  it  anyway?  " 

''Hope  in  God,  by  Alfred  de  Musset"." 
,     "  Bravo  !  "  I  exclaimed.     *'  These  lines  I  have  read  my 
self  more  than  once,  and  not  without  having  experienced 
a  pleasing  impression.     Beauties  of  the  first  order  —  verses 
little  short  of  immortal !     Come,  begin  !     1  vouch  for  your 
success !  " 

His  success  in  fact  was  decided ;  the  end  of  the  piece 
particularly,  the  Prayer,  produced  a  profound  and  genenil 
emotion.  Never  before  had  the  charming  interpreter  of 
The  October  Night,  and  No  Jesting  with  Love,  so  much 
enraptured  me.  His  voice  was  delightfully  sweet  and  soft. 
He  did  not  speak  —  he  prayed  !  He  prayed,  just  as  people 
sing  —  but  he  was  very  far  from  singing  —  he  pursued  the 
charming  path  that  lies  midway  between  majestic  speech 
and  melting  music.     It  was,  in  fact,  a  hymn  of  youth,  oi 


94  THE  ART  OF  READING. 

rather  of  youthfulness  —  his  accents  revealed  all  the  touch 
ing  weakness  of  sublime  immaturity  —  we  were  all  moved 
to  tears. 

Starting  for  the  shores  of  Britanny,  three  months  after- 
wards, I  took  care  to  carry  my  Musset  along,  determined 
to  learn  in  my  turn  how  to  recite  Hope  in  God.  The  very 
first  day  of  my  arrival  I  set  myself  to  work.  There  I  was, 
strolling  among  the  rocks,  my  ears  ringing  with  the  grand 
bass  of  the  '^far-resounding  sea,"  as  I  recited  aloud  these 
splendid  verses.  I  say  recited,  not  read,  but  recited,  for 
ofte  of  the  advantages  of  our  art  —  I  sa.y  our  a.rt  —  for  I 
hope  it  will  soon  become  yours, — one  of  its  many  advan- 
tages is  that  it  helps  to  people  our  memory  with  many  a 
grand  passage  from  immortal  works,  Reading  these  is  not 
enough  —  we  must  say  them  ....  repeat  them  ....  recite 
them  at  every  moment  that  the  humor  takes  us,  at  every 
moment  that  we  have  the  opportunity !  Down  on  the  books 
that  you  must  be  always  dragging  along  !  Be  independent 
of  them !  Be  able  to  do  without  them  !  Or  rather,  carry 
your  books  in  your  head!  That's  the  way  to  start  on  a. 
summer  trip  !  You  are,  to  all  appearance,  solitary  and 
alone.  You  appear  to  undertake  it  without  inviting  a  sin- 
gle one  of  your  silent  but  eloquent  company.  Nevertheless, 
you  are  surrounded  by  a  troop  of  such  friends  as  Lamar- 
tine^^,  Corneille,  La  Fontaine,  Victor  Hugo^^  With  them 
we  hold  pleasant  converse  in  the  depths  of  the  forest  shades; 
with  them  we  talk  about  our  own  daring  lines;  with  them 
we  pass  hours  and  hours  of  delightful  intercourse,  hunting 
after  some  fleeting  emotional  tone,  tender  and  true,  finding 
it  at  last,  announcing  the  discovery  with  delight  and  asking 
them  how  they  are  pleased  with  our  success. 

This  is  certainly  what  I  did  with  De  Musset's  Hope  in 
God.     Never  before  had  I  learned  anything  with  greater 


A   DISILLUSION.  95 

facility  or  pleasure  than  the  first  two  parts  of  the  poem. 
These  admirable  lines  I  read  and  pondered  over  until  J 
felt  them  entering  my  memory  like  arrows  rapid,  keen,  and 
barbed  !  Two  or  three  recitals  were  quite  sufficient  tc 
commit  them  perfectly. 

All  those  grand  phrases  that  flash  through  the  first  parts 
like  vivid  lightnings  over  a  stormy  sky : 

Hope,  deathless,  vast  inspires  a  gasping  world 

I  cannot !     The  Infinite  overwhelms  me  ! 

Of  woman  born,  of  high  or  low  degree, 
Humanity's  steel  chain  forever  binds  us  !  — 

—  all  these  became  delightful  subjects  for  study.  I  rev- 
elled in  my  happiness  and  often  caught  myself  saying : 

"But  what 's  all  this  in  comparison  to  the  Prayer?" 

I  came  to  the  Prayer.  Oh  !  what  a  disappointment ! 
What  a  disillusion. 

I  begin  the  Prayer  —  not  one  single  accent  can  I  find 
true.  I  try  to  learn  it  by  heart.  I  can't  learn  it  by 
heart !  The  words  resist  me,  escape  me  !  I  am  somewhat 
disturbed,  I  begin  to  discredit  my  judgment,  my  taste,  but 
I  renew  the  attack  with  fresh  vigor  —  still  the  same  in- 
domitable resistance  !  The  moment  I  begin  it,  I  find  a 
coolness  taking  possession  of  me  in  spite  of  myself.  As 
much  as  the  powerful  painting  of  the  pangs  of  Doubt,  of 
the  vanity  of  mere  Human  systems  had  filled  me  with  de- 
light and  enthralled  me  with  admiration,  just  so  much  did 
this  appeal  to  Faith  now  leave  me  unmoved,  indifferent, 
chilled. 

I  pursue  my  studies  further.     I  examine  this  ''Prayer,* 
word  for  word,  and,  by  degrees,  hiding   themselves  here 
and  there  behind   occasional   lines  of   an  emotion   really 


g6  THE  ART  OF  READING. 

touching  and  finely  expressed,  I  discover  a  good  many, 
too  many  of  our  conventional  commonplace  verses,  chmirs 
des  anges,  les  celestes  louatiges,  concerts  de  joie  et  de  V  amour 
(angel  choirs,  celestial  praise,  concerts  of  joy  and  love 
ttc). 

Now  I  have  always  remarked  that  bletnishes  are  really 
faults,  that  is  to  say,  failures  in  execution  generally  pro- 
ceed from  defects  in  the  composition.  When  you  feel  a 
great  writer's  style  suddenly  growing  feebler,  you  may  con- 
clude at  once  that  his  flow  of  ideas  is  becoming  feebler  too. 
Pursuing  my  investigation,  therefore,  I  soon  discovered 
that,  "not  to  put  too  fine  a  point  on  it,"  this  sublime 
"Prayer,"  this  grand  apostrophe  to  God,  this  "  heart- 
r'jnt "  cry  to  God,  this  "impassioned"  appeal  to  God, 
could  be  summed  up  into  something  hardly  better  than 
a  commonplace  wish,  a  puerile  demand,  a  proposition 
strongly  partaking  of  the  silly.  The  poet  asks  the  Creator 
to  rend  asunder  the  vast  vaults  of  the  firmament,  to  tear 
away  all  abstracting  veils — to  show  Himself  in  fact,  and 
then  the  poet  promises  HIM,  in  exchange  for  all  this  — 
what? — the  respect  and  love  of  man!  "Be  good,"  he 
says  to  the  OMNIPOTENT  ONE,  as  he  would  say  it  to 
a  fretful  child,  "  and  we  shall  love  you  ever  so  much  !  " 

No  wonder  then  that,  the  sandy  foundations  of  the  poem 
suddenly  giving  way,  the  whole  edifice  collapsed  before  me 
in  an  instant.  Its  plan  was  radically  vicious.  The  first  part 
has  really  no  connexion  with  the  second  part.  The  poet 
of  the  beginning  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  poet  of  the 
end  —  they  are  really  two  different  men  !  of  two  different 
ages !  The  writer  of  the  first  part  might  be  thirty  years 
old,  the  writer  of  the  second  could  be  no  more  than  four- 
teen. The  towering  portal  of  magnificent  proportions  ad 
mits  us  into  insignificant  little  chambers,  mean,  cramped, 


A   DISILLUSION.  97 

and  even  bare  in  spite  of  their  tawdry  furniture.  Here, 
as  often  elsewhere,  De  Musset  fails  in  the  grand  flight! 
His  wings  flutter  nervously  on  the  ground  instead  of  bear- 
ing him  majestically  on  high  !  His  own  verses  describe 
him  perfectly : 

Et  puisque  le  d6sir  se  sent  clou6  sur  terre, 

Comme  un  aigle  blesse  qui  meurt  dans  la  poussi^re, 

L'aile  ouverte,  et  les  yeux  fix6s  sur  le  soleil. 

(Pinned  to  the  earth  by  spear  of  wild  Desire, 
Still  heavenward  ever  he  turns  a  wistful  gaze; 
So  the  pierced  eagle,  writhing  in  the  sand. 
Flaps  a  weak  wing  and  struggles  tow'rds  the  Sun.) 

Poor  De  Musset  was  an  eagle  too,  but  an  eagle  mortally 
wounded!  He  too  flapped  a  weak  wing,  but  desire 
kept  him  nailed  to  earth.  He  too  struggled  towards  the 
Sun,  but  never  reached  the  azure  serene.  For  the  close 
of  such  a  poem,  a  very  different  cry  of  Love  and  Faith  was 
required.  A  bound  upwards  was  required  that  took  you 
at  once  in  aerial  flight  far  above  all  human  systems,  up- 
wards, onwards,  to  the  very  throne  of  God  Himself!  And 
such  a  cry  has  been  uttered  !     It  still  exists  !     Here  it  is ; 

Pour  moi,  quand  je  verrais,  dans  les  celestes  plaines,  etc.* 

*  The  following  is  the  passage  in  full : 

Pour  moi,  quand  je  verrais,  dans  les  celestes  plaines, 
Les  astres,  s'ecartant  de  leurs  routes  certaines, 
Dans  les  champs  de  lather  Pun  par  I'autre  heurtes, 
Parcourir  par  hazard  les  cieux  epouvant6s ; 
Quand  j'entendrais  g6mir  et  se  briser  la  terre, 
Quand  je  verrais  son  globe  errant  et  solitaire, 
Flottant  loin  des  soleils,  pleurant  I'homme  d^truit, 
Se  perdre  dans  les  champs  de  I'dternelle  nuit; 
Et,  quand,  dernier  temoin  de  ces  scenes  fundbres, 
Entoure  du  chaos,  de  la  mort,  des  ten^bres, 
9  G 


98  THE  ART  OF  READING, 

[Translation  : 

Nay  !     Should   Creation  to  chaos  dread  return. 

Sweet  daylight  die,  the  sun  forget  to  burn, 

The  stars,  abandoning  their  paths  on  high, 

Jostle,  and  burst,  and  shoot  along  the  sky ; 

Should  Earth  from  guiding  orbit  blindly  break 

And  straight  for  the  realms  of  Night  eternal  make, 

Far  from  the  sunsj  far  from  the  genial  air, 

Sobbing  a  wail  of  impotent  despair 

For  lost  humanity;  even  then  should  I, 

Last  of  our  race,  be  left  alone  to  die, 

Naught  staring  round  but  chaos,  horror,  death, 

Even  then  w^ould  I  kope^  still  would  my  latest  breath 

Proclaim  undying  confidence  in  Thee, 

My  God,  great,  mercy-loving  Deity! 

Mid  wreck-strewn  plains  of  space,  unterrified 

Thee  would  I  bless,  in  Thy  loved  will  confide, 

Sure  that  Thy  hands  benign  would  soon  restore 

Light,  Love,  and  Order  to  Thy  worlds  once  more!] 

This  passage  is  the  real  dome  of  De  Musset's  edifice. 
But  De  Musset  did  not  write  it !  Who  did  ?  Alphonse  de 
Lamartine  !  And  this  is  the  reason  why  to  me,  in  spite  of 
the  many  graces  undoubtedly  possessed  by  the  singer  of 
Rolla,  the  poet  of  the  Meditations  is  by  far  a  greater  fa- 
vorite. 

Here  I  fancy  I  hear  yoa  whispering  to  each  other:  you 
are  probably  saying : 

"  Delaunay  then  must  have  trapped  you  all  very  nicely  ! 
He  extracted  your  tears  by  means  of  verses  of  inferior  con 
struction  !  Is  the  Art  of  Reading  then  an  art  of  deception  ? 
Can  a  Reader,  like  a  Lawyer,  prove  the  wrong  to  be  right?" 


Seul  je  serais  debout;  seul,  ma]gr6  mon  effroi, 
ICtre  infaillible  et  bon,  j'espererais  en  toi; 
Et  certain  du  retour  de  Teternelle  aurore, 
Sur  les  mondes  detruits,  je  t'attendrais  encore  I 


A   DISILLUSION'.  99 

An  answer  to  this  is  easy.  That  a  Reader,  who  knows 
his  business,  has  a  perfect  right  to  bring  out  the  beauties 
of  his  subject  into  the  strongest  relief,  and  at  the  same  time 
do  all  he  can  to  diminish  its  defects,  does  not  admit  of  a 
shadow  of  doubt ;  but  this  liberty  is  allowable  only  when 
he  has  realized  these  beauties  himself  and  discovered  these 
defects  himself.  Us  therefore  he  may  dupe  occasionally  but 
himself  never ! 

Some  time  afterwards  I  told  Delaunay  of  my  disillusion. 

"  It  does  not  at  all  surprise  me,"  was  his  reply.  *'  I  had 
myself  detected  that  very  flaw  which  you  found  so  displeas- 
ing and  had  readily  seen  that  the  first  part  of  the  composi- 
tion was  much  superior  to  the  second.  But  I  had  also  dis- 
covered that  this  Prayer,  which  you  must  acknowledge 
really  contains  several  very  touching  lines,  was  capable 
of  some  new  and  telling  effects.  I  expected  it  to  move 
youi  as  it  had  moved  me,  by  its  very  suggestions  of  human 
weakness.  I  contrived  to  exert  my  art  in  abridging  a  little 
of  the  first  part,  in  toning  it  down  somewhat,  so  as  to  be 
able  to  set  the  second  in  stronger  light." 

You  see  then  that  Delaunay  had  not  really  entrapped  us 
into  unwarranted  emotion.  He  had  simply  improved  on 
his  author,  and  this  he  could  have  done  only  on  the  condi- 
tion of  not  being  entrapped  himself. 

— Which  brings  us  back  to  our  first  principle : 

The  best  way  to  understand  a  work  is  to  read  it  aloud. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

READING  POETRY. 

DE  MUSSET'S  name  has  naturally  brought  us  to  an 
important  question  in  the  study  of  our  subject :  the 
application  of  the  art  of  Reading  to  poetry. 

How  are  verses  to  be  read  ? 

Judging  by  what  is  usually  done,  even  on  the  stage,  the 
grand  art  of  reading  poetry  consists  in  inaking  the  audi- 
ence think  you  are  reading  prose.  I  was  sitting  one  even- 
ing in  a  theatre,  quite  close  to  a  box  occupied  by  two 
ladies  elegantly  dressed  and  evidently  of  some  distinction. 
All  at  once  one  of  them  exclaims : 

*'Good  gracious  !     They  're  giving  us  verses  !  " 

And  up  they  rise  and  out  they  go. 

For  the  loss  of  their  company  the  actor  certainly  was 
not  to  be  blamed ;  he  had  taken  all  kinds  of  pains  to 
conceal  the  monster;  he  had  so  successfully  broken  up, 
dislocated  and  chopped  the  lines  to  pieces  that  the 
** poetry"  reminded  me  of  some  murdered  hero's  body 
so  gashed  and  disfigured  by  wounds  that  his  own  mother 
could  not  have  recognized  him. 

The  amateurs  naturally  and  blindly  imitate  the  artists. 
Indeed  they  can't  very  well  do  anything  else.  We  know 
only  what  we  have  learned,  and  very  few  suspect  that  here 
anything  is  to  be  learned.  I  have  never  heard  poetry 
read  in  public  without  being  astonished  unto  admiration 
at  the  innumerable  methods  by  which  people  contrive  to 


READING    POETRY.  lOI 

read  it  badly.  Some,  suffering  from  I  know  not  what  in- 
comprehensible nightmare  of  harmony,  conceive  it  to  be 
their  conscientious  and  inexcusable  duty  to  envelope  their 
verses  in  a  sort  of  unctuous  rhapsodical  singsong,  killing 
off  all  the  rhymes,  softening  off  all  the  outlines,  shading 
off  all  the  movements,  until  they  succeed  at  last  very 
thoroughly  in  producing  upon  the  listener  the  same 
nauseous  impression  as  you  experience  when  you  take 
some  insipid  greasy  draught.  Others  again,  laboring 
under  the  delusion  that  everything  should  be  sacrificed 
for  the  sake  of  *' truth,"  never  seem  to  give  themselves 
the  least  concern  whatever  regarding  either  the  rhythm, 
the  rhyme,  or  the  prosody  ;  and,  when  they  unfortunately 
remember  that  the  cesura  should  be  somewhere  about  the. 
sixth  foot,  they  always  contrive  to  make  a  pause  in  the 
very  spot  where,  of  all  places  in  the  world,  a  pause  is 
sure  to  make  the  whole  verse  ridiculous. 

In  opposition  to  these  strange  errors,  allow  me  to  pre- 
sent you  with  three  maxims,  absolute  and  final,  the  truth 
of  which  I  shall  prove  by  the  simplest  examples : 

1.  The  Art  of  Reading  is  never  so  difficult  and  never  so 
necessary  as  when  it  is  applied  to  poetry.  Only  long  and 
careful  study  can  make  you  a  proficient. 

2.  You  must  read  verses  as  verses,  and  poetry  with  the 
ear  of  a  poet. 

3.  The  interpreter  of  poets  must  become  their  confi- 
dant ;  that  is,  they  must  reveal  to  him  what  they  reveal  to 
no  other. 

To  demonstrate  these  three  axioms,  one  poet  and  one 
alone  may  be  taken,  La  Fontaine. 

The  little  detail  1  am  now  about  to  give  must  not  be 
considered  a  digression  ;   in  fact  it  will  be  only  a  shorter 
and  pleasanter  path  to  take  you  where  I  want  you  to  go. 
9* 


102  THE  ART  OF  READING. 

La  Fontaine  was  the  first  book  in  which  I  took  reading 
lessons.  My  master  was  a  man  of  talent  —  perhaps  he  even 
had  too  much  talent  —  with  a  charming  voice,  of  which  he 
certainly  made  a  sensible  use,  and  with  a  play  of  features, 
of  which  he  just  as  certainly  took  considerably  too  much 
advantage.  He  gave  me,  however,  two  lessons  of  great 
and  equal  utility,  from  which  I  hope  you  may  profit  just 
as  much  as  I  did.  He  told  me  both  what  a  reader  should 
always  attempt  to  do,  and  what  he  should  always  carefully 
avoid. 

He  had  to  read  some  fables  of  La  Fontaine  one  morning 
at  the  Conservatory  before  some  literary  assembly  j  on  the 
way  he  called  in  on  me,  and  said : 

*'Come  and  see  how  a  reader  that  knows  his  business 
'presents  himself  before  a  large  audience.  That  you  may 
profit  the  more  from  it,  here  is  the  programme : 

^'I  begin  by  giving  the  assembly  a  sweeping  glance. 
This  glance,  circular,  comprehensive,  and  accompanied  by 
a  half  smile  lightly  pencilled  on  the  lips,  must  be  of  an 
agreeable  and  amiable  character.  Its  object  is  to  con- 
ciliate the  good-will  of  the  audience,  to  make  a  collection 
of  their  sympathies  arid  regards,  and  particularly,  to  make 
yourself  the  central  point  of  attraction  for  all  eyes.  Then 
you  clear  your  throat  a  little  —  hm  !  hm  !  —  as  if  you  were 
going  to  begin  —  but  you  don't  begin  !  —  not  yet !  — you 
wait  until  the  silence  is  as  still  as  death.  Then  you  ad- 
vance your  arm  —  your  right  arm,  mind  —  with  a  graceful 
curve  of  the  elbow  —  never  forget  that  —  the  elbow  is  the 
soul  of  the  arm  !  Attention  redoubled.  You  announce 
the  title.  You  announce  it  simply,  aiming  at  no  effect, 
playing  programme  as  it  were  —  The  Oak  and  ihe  Reed. 
You  begin  :  The  OAK —  here  your  voice  must  be  round 
and  full !     The  intonation,  however,  must  be  dampened  a 


READING   POETRY.  IO3 

bit !  Your  gesture  must  be  noble  and  somewhat  emphatic  ! 
You're  describing  a  giant,  you  know,  his  head  in  the 
clouds,  his  feet  in  the  regions  of  eternal  death  ! 

"  The  OAK,  one  day  said  to  the  reed. 

"Remember!  Hardly  any  voice  at  all  in  pronouncing 
the  word  Reed  /  Let  your  intonation  belittle  him,  squeeze 
him,  crush  him,  the  wretched  vegetable  !  Despise  him, 
throw  up  your  nose  at  him,  give  him  a  contemptuous 
glance  over  your  shoulder  —  all  this  in  a  masterly  way, 
you  know  —  with  a  low,  smothered  voice  as  if  you  were 
looking  down  on  him  from  a  great  distance " 

—  What!  tittering?  Well,  I  don't  wonder!  But  how 
heartily  you  would  laugh  if  I  proceeded  to  show  you  how 
my  respected  preceptof,  Monsieur  Febve,  read  the  line : 

Regardaient  rotir  des  marrons  — 

He  actually  made  the  five  r's  roll  and  rattle  on  his  tongue 
m  imitation  of  the  chestnuts  crackling  and  sputtering  before 
the  fire !  Absurd,  you  say,  ridiculous,  silly.  Well,  the 
absurdity,  the  ridiculousness,  the  silliness  I  don't  deny. 
But  I  tell  you  that  in  spite  of  absurdity,  ridiculousness, 
silliness,  my  preceptor's  remarks  contained  much  that  was 
profound,  just,  truthful !  Nothing  is  more  unquestionable 
than  that  you  must  not  begin  to  read  the  instant  you  mount 
the  platform,  or  that  you  must  endeavor  by  a  certain  glance 
to  put  yourself  in  communication  with  your  audience,  or 
that  you  must  announce  your  title  simply,  unostentatiously, 
distinctly,  and  that  you  must  try  to  represent,  to  realize, 
to  paint  and  reproduce,  as  it  were,  your  different  person- 
ages by  the  varying  intonations  of  your  voice.  In  short, 
if  you  only  suppress  my  preceptor's  fantastic,  perhaps  pe- 
culiar, exaggerations,  affectations,  and  far-fetched  strains 


104  THE  ART  OF  READING. 

after  the  impossible,  you  can  draw  from  his  instructions 
an  excellent  and  highly  useful  lesson. 

About  the  manner  of  reading  fables,  we  must  now  make 
a  few  remarks.  The  ordinary  opinion  is  so  prevalent  as 
to  have  become  an  axiom :  Fables  should  be  read  simply. 
Simply  —  no  doubt.  But  what  do  you  mean  by  simply? 
Do  you  mean  smoothly,  unvaryingly,  or,  in  short,  pro- 
sily? You  do?  Well,  then  I  am  sorry  to  be  compelled 
to  differ  with  you  in  toto.  That  is  not  reading  La  Fon- 
taine, it  is  killing  him  !  Traduiore  traditore  !  It  is  not 
translating  him,  it  is  betraying  him  !  La  Fontaine  is  the 
most  involved  poet  of  the  French  language.  No  writer 
unites  in  one  single  individual  so  many  contrarieties.  No 
poetry  is  so  rich  in  opposition  !  His  well-earned  nickname 
of  Bonhomme  (simpleton),  his  well-known  reputation  for 
''verdancy,"  the  thousand  and  one  anecdotes  told  of  his 
fits  of  abstraction,  have  all  somewhat  blinded  us  with  re- 
gard to  his  unquestioned  genius.  The  man  has  set  us  all 
wrong  in  estimating  \\\&  poet.  Of  the  simplest  manners  ? 
Yes.  As  an  individual,  somewhat  eccentric,  possibly  fool- 
ish ?  Granted.  But  put  a  pen  into  the  hand  of  this  sim- 
pleton, this  Poor  Poll  —  he  is  simpleton  no  longer!  He 
is  the  quickest,  the  deepest,  the  sharpest,  the  knowingest ! 
We  are  nothing  beside  him  !  We  are  simple  amateurs ; 
he  is  the  most  accomplished  of  artists !  He  has  himself 
revealed  his  secret : 

Tandis  que  sous  nies  cheveux  blancs 
"Je  fabrique  a  force  de  temps ^ 
Des  vers  moins  sensis  que  la  prose. 
(Whilst  in  my  old  age  I  manufacture  with  time  and  care  verses 
hardly  as  sensible  as  prose.) 

J  manufacture  I    Do  you  understand  the  word?    Does  it 


READING   POETRY.  I05 

not  pretty  well  express  effort,  energy,  powerful  will?  In 
fact,  with  La  Fontaine  everything  is  carefully  calculated 
beforehand,  premeditated,  sought  after  with  effort,  while, 
at  the  same  time,  by  a  miraculous  gift,  everything  is  har- 
monious, flexible,  natural !  Art  everywhere,  the  artful 
nowhere  !  What  is  the  key  to  this  wondrous  union?  His 
delightful  simplicity  of  heart  naturally  passes  into  his 
verses,  and  then  fuses  itself  so  thoroughly  with  his  great 
literary  talent  that,  while  his  knowledge  enables  him  to 
represent  simplicity  with  consummate  skill,  his  simpli- 
city imparts  its  own  airy  gracefulness  to  knowledge. 

Another  contrast,  another  difficulty,  and  consequently 
another  merit.  In  La  Fontaine  all  extremes  meet.  Side 
by  side,  in  the  closest  union,  stand  tones  the  most  dis- 
similar, emotion,  humor,  power,  grandeur,  dignity,  famil- 
iarity, Gallic  joviality,  all  elbowing  each  other  incessantly, 
and  all  present  everywhere  in  every  one  of  his  poems. 
No  writer  that  I  know  of  has  succeeded  so  perfectly  in 
packing  so  much  value  into  so  small  a  space  !  One  single 
line,  often  one  single  word  of  his,  is  sufficient  to  open  out 
to  your  gaze  far  extending  horizons  !  Painter  incompara- 
ble !  Narrator  incomparable  !  Creator  of  original  char- 
acters, hardly  inferior  to  Moliere  himself!  And  you 
think  all  this  can  be  rendered  simply,  unvaryingly,  pro- 
sily, without  effort  ?  I  tell  you  again  that  it  cannot !  No. 
It  is  only  after  deep  and  careful  study  that  a  reader  may 
begin  to  think  that  he  understands  even  imperfectly,  much 
less  undertake  to  make  others  understand,  an  art  so  pro- 
found and  so  elaborate. 

My  expressions,  I  confess,  want  clearness :  to  illustrate 
Ihem,  let  us  take  the  fable  of 


I06  THE  ARt  OF  READING. 

THE   HERON. 

Un  jour,  stir  ses  longs  pieds  allait,je  ne  sais  ou, 
Le  hiron  au  long  bee  emmanche  d'un  long  cou. 
(One  day,  the   Heron  was  going  somewhere  on  his  long  legs,  his 
long  bill  swinging  at  the  end  of  his  long  neck.) 

Any  one  can  see  here  that  the  triple  repetition  of  the 
word  long  is  a  pictorial  effect  which  the  reader  should  at- 
tempt to  render. 

//  cotoyait  tine  riviere  ; 
L  ^onde  etait  tratisparente  ainsi  qu'  aux  plus  beaux  jours. 
(He  was  stalking  alongside  a  brook,  whose  waters  were  as  transpa- 
rent as  waters  can  be  in  the  most  lovely  weather.) 

Should  these  two  lines  be  read  in  the  same  way?  By  no 
means.  The  first,  being  simple  narrative,  should  be  read 
simply.  The  second  is  a  painter's  line  ;  the  image  must 
be  rendered  as  visible  by  the  reader's  tongue  as  by  the  poet's 

pen. 

Ala  commere  la  carpe  y  faisait  milk  tours 
Avec  le  brocket  son  compare  ! 
(There  frolicked  together  Dame  Carp  with  her  old  crony  Beau  Pike !) 

You  don't  know  your  business  very  well  here  unless  yvui 
contrive  to  throw  into  your  voice  a  lively,  joyous,  sportive, 
lightly  jesting  expression,  suggestive  of  the  jovial  fun  of  the 
rollicking  pair. 

Le  hiron  en  etit  fait  aishnent  son  projit ; 
Tous  s'' approchaient  du  bord;  Voiseau  n^ avail  que  prendre. 
(The  heron  could  have  easily  gobbled  them  up ;  they  touched  the 
"iank  every  now  and  then;  he  had  but  to  stoop.) 

Simple  narration  all  this,  nothing  more. 

Mais  il  crtit  mieux  faire  d^attendre 
Qu  HI  eut  tin  peu  plus  d  ^appHit. 
(But  he  was  in  no  hurry.     By  and  by  would  serve  just  as  well. 


READING   POETRY.  10/ 

Defeninpj  could  do  no  possible  harm ;  on  the  contraiy,  it  would  enable 
him  to  enjoy  his  meal  with  better  appetite.) 

Attention  !  Character  begins  to  develop  !  Mr.  Heron 
seems  to  be  somewhat  nice  in  his  tastes,  an  epicure,  how- 
ever, not  at  all  a  glutton.  To  delicate  stomachs  appetite 
is  a  highly  prized  pleasure.  Remember  then  to  give  the 
word  appetite  a  decided  accentuation,  an  emphasis  sa\ory, 
suggestive  of  tidbits^  toothsome,  melting,  piquant.  In  a 
moment  you  will  see  why. 

//  vivait  de  rtgime  et  mangeait  a  ses  heures. 
(He  followed  a  prescribed  diet  and  for  his  meals  he  strictly  took  his 
own  time.) 

Second  sketch  of  character !  Mr.  Heron  is  an  import- 
ant member  of  society,  an  object  of  proper  pride  to  himself 
and  his  numerous  friends;  he  deserves  our  most  respectful 
attention  and  sympathy. 

Au  bout  de  quelque  temps  Vappktit  vint — 
(After  a  charming  promenade  appetite's  delightful  sensation  began 
to  tickle  him.) 

Happy  Mr.  Heron  ! 

Voiseau 
S'' approchant  du  bord  vit  sur  Veau 
Des  tanches  qui  sortaient  dufond  de  leurs  demeures. 
(Drawing  near  the  brink,  he  contemplated  the  surface  fretted  bv 
countless  tenches,  fluttering  up  by  scores  from  their  dark  abodes.) 

Admirable  verses  !  and  worthy  of  an  artist !  They  fully 
express  the  peculiarly  picturesque  sight  you  have  no  doubt 
often  enjoyed,  if  at  all  a  disciple  of  the  gentle  craft,  at  wit- 
nessing first  the  shadows,  then  the  dim  outlines,  then  the 
numberless  fishes  themselves,  as  they  swarm  up  from  the 
swaying  weeds  at  the  bottom  and  throw  into  gentle  ebulli- 
tion the  sparkling  waters  of  the  crystal  stream  !  Paint  this  ! 
Paint  it  all  with  your  voice! 


I08  THE  ART  OF  READING. 

Ce  fuets  ne  ltd  pint  pas,  il  s'  aftendait  a  viieiix, 
II  montrait  tin  gout  dedaigneiiXy 
Comme  le  rat  du  bon  Hoi-ace. 
(No,  thank  you!     He  reserves  himself  for  something  better!     Like 
the  rat  in  the  fable,  Mr.  Heron  turns  up  a  disdainful  nose.) 
Moi^  des  tanches  !  dit-il,  moi,  hh'on,  que  je  fasse 
Une  si pauvre  chire  !  et pour  qui  ?ne  prend-on  ? 
(Tenches  for  me!     Me,  a  Heron!      Tenches!    *What  do  people 
take  me  for  ?  ) 

Aspirate  the  H  well !  Lift  Mr.  Heron  high  on  it ! 
Elevate  him  aloft  on  it,  hoist  him  on  it  as  if  on  another 
pair  of  long  legs  ! 

La  tanche  dSdaignie,  il  trouva  du  goujon. 
Du  goujon  !  Beau  diner,  vraiment^  pour  un  hiron  J 
(The  despised  tenches  soon  disappeared,  to  be  succeeded  by  noth- 
ing better  than  gudgeons.     Gudgeon  !    One  of  the  Herons  to  dine  on 
gudgeon!     Ha!  Ha!  Ha!) 

The  idea  is  so  comical  that  he  can't  help  bursting  into 
a  hearty  fit  of  laughter. 

Que  f  ouvre  pour  si  peu  le  bee  !    A  Dieu  ne  plaise  ! 

II  r ouvrit  pour  bien  mains.      Tout  alia  de  faqon 

Quil  ne  vit  plus  aucun  poisson. 

La  f aim  le  prit. 
(Open   my    bill    for   a    gudgeon !     Never !     So   help   me   heaven, 
never!     (Softly,  Mr.  Heron.    You  shall  open  your  bill  for  even  less!) 
Things  vi^ent  on  from  bad  to  worse.     At  last  not  a  single  fish  was  to 
be  seen  anywhere.     Hunger  nipped  him.) 

Hunger !  You  see  the  contrast  between  hunger  and 
appetite'^  Do  you  suppose  La  Fontaine  wrote  without 
malice  prepense  this  little  half-verse,  so  clear,  yet  so  ter- 
rible in  its  meaning :  La  faim  le  prit,  (Hunger  nipped 
him)  ?  Not  at  all.  The  time  for  dainty,  piquant,  sa- 
vory expressions  is  past. 

Hunger!     The  word  is  sharp,   clear,  cruel,  merciless,' 


READING  POETRY.  IO9 

It  strangles  Mr.  Heron.  It  chokes  him.  A  death  by 
starvation  stares  him  in  the  face  !  Render  all  this  by  your 
voice.  Paint  also  the  denouement  abrupt,  disdainful,  deci- 
sive, pitiless  like  a  statute : 

//  fut  tout  heureux  et  tout  aise 

De  rencontrer  un  lirnnfon. 
(Most  fortunate  at  last  and  particularly  lucky  did  Mr.  Heron  deem 
himself  when  he  caught  sight  of  a  small,  slimy,  watery,  crawling 
snail.) 

Nearly  all  La  Fontaine's  fables  afford  subjects  for  similar 
study,  and  all  the  great  poets  can  be  studied  as  well  as  La 
Fontaine.  Only — and  this  we  must  never  forget — the  modes 
of  reading  verse  are  just  as  numerous  as  the  modes  of  writ- 
ing verse.  Racine  must  not  be  read  like  Corneille,  nor 
Moliere  like  Regnard*",  nor  Lamartine  like  Victor  Hugo. 
Correct  elocution  varies  strictly  according  to  the  nature 
of  the  genius  that  it  undertakes  to  interpret.  Sink  the 
faults,  hurry  through  or  abridge  the  tedious  passages,  skip 
them  even  if  you  like,  but  never  attempt  to  change  your 
author's  nature  !  A  reader  who  would  undertake  to  delivei 
JRuy  Bias,  for  instance,  in  what  is  called  a  simple  unaf- 
fected style  would  deprive  the  play  at  one  blow  of  its  mosi 
predominant  characteristic  —  its  richness  of  coloring.  If 
we  are  plain  with  the  plain,  with  the  exuberant  we  must  be 
exuberant  —  it  would  never  do  to  copy  Rubens^  with  neu- 
tral tints.  To  read  an  ode  as  we  should  read  a  fable,  a 
lyric  strain  like  a  dramatic  passage,  Lamartine's  Stars  like 
Florian's^  The  Blind  Man  and  the  Paralytic,  would  be 
simply  spreading  a  gray  veil  of  dull  uniformity  over  the 
magnificent  variety  of  genius's  glittering  garden. 

But  the  Rule  immutable,  inflexible,  eternal,  applicable 
to  all  kinds  of  poetry,  to  all  kinds  of  poets  —  the  Law 
comprising  all  laws  is  this :    When  you  read  a  poet,  read 


no  THE  ART  OF  READING. 

him  as.  a  poet.  Where  there  is^  rhythm,  let  that  rhythm 
be  heard  !  Where  there  is  rhyme,  let  us  be  made  aware 
of  it !  When  the  verses  are  painting  and  music,  be  a 
painter  and  a  musician  when  you  read  them  !  In  how 
many  passages,  for  instance,  is  the  intensely  pathetic  sug- 
gested by  little  more  than  the  melancholy  but  melodious 
cadence  !  Good-natured  friends  will  of  course  warn  you  : 
*'Take  care  !  "  they  will  cry,  ''you  're  becoming  emphatic, 
declamatory  !  You  're  forgetting  Nature  !  You  're  over- 
stepping the  bounds  of  Truth  !  "  Ah  !  Truth  is  infinitely 
vaster  than  the  narrow  brains  of  pedants  can  comprehend  ! 
Truth  is  infinitely  grander  than  the  merely  natural !  Truth 
embraces  within  her  dominions  not  merely  the  so-called 
Natural,  but  everything  that  the  human  soul  can  reach  in 
its  highest  flight !  Whatever  is  written  with  consistency 
and  in  sincerity  is  Truth,  and  as  Truth  should  be  read  ! 
Not  of  course,  the  Truth  of  every-day  commonplace 
experience,  nor  of  cold,  plain,  practical  reason ;  but  the 
Truth  of  the  soul,  quite  as  real  and  just  as  natural  as  the 
Truth  of  the  body  !  When  you  think  of  the  fertile  fancy 
and  burning  imagination  of  Ariosto^',  what  image  rises  in 
your  mind?  The  classic  Pegasus?  Not  at  all.  It  is  the 
winged  Hippogriff  that  bore  Astolpho  to  the  moon!  Well 
then,  when  you  read  Orlando  Furioso,  take  your  seat  on 
that  Hippogriff 's  back  and  start  with  him  for  the  dazzling 
regions  beyond  the  stars  ! 

And  this  reminds  me  of  a  certain  kind  of  poetry  not  yet 
spoken  of,  though  closely  connected  with  our  study  and 
most  completely  dependent  on  art.  I  mean  that  kind  of 
poetry  which  is  much  more  common  in  French  Literature 
than  in  English,  and  is  usually  known  by  the  name  of 
Free  Verses. 

A  conversation  of  mine  with  Victor  Cousin^,  will  help 
considerably  to  bring  out  my  idea. 


PROPERTy  OF 
DEPARTHIEHT  OF  DRIirilATIC  ART 


CHAPTER  VII. 

FREE   VERSES. 

VICTOR  COUSIN  was  the  greatest  initiator  of  us  all 
into  the  grandeurs  of  the  Seventeenth  Century,  simply 
because  he  was  its  greatest  adorer.  It  would  be  a  calumny, 
however,  to  limit  his  passionate  admiration  to  the  fine 
ladies  of  that  period ;  he  was  quite  as  much  captivated  by 
Pascal  as  by  Madame  de  Longueville^,  and  he  would  never 
exchange  the  great  Corneille  for  the  most  enchanting  of 
the  marchionesses.  Still,  it  cannot  be  denied  that  he, was 
not  free  from  the  usual  fault  of  fanatics  —  he  considered  a 
single  word  uttered  in  disparagement  of  one  of  his  idols  as 
a  personal  insult  offered  to  himself;  in  fact,  on  such  occa- 
sions his  temper  hardly  knew  any  bounds. 

At  one  of  our  usual  sessions  in  the  Academy  one  day,  I 
happened  unfortunately  to  observe  that,  out  of  the  fourteen 
verses  composing  the  introduction  to  Baucis  and  Phile- 
mon,  I  considered  only  two  to  be  admirable  and  that  I 
looked  on  the  rest  as  absolutely  detestable.  Cousin  darted 
me  a  furious  glance,  but  I  kept  on  saying  my  say  : 

'*  Nothing  can  be  finer  than  such  a  verse  as  this : 

La  Fortune  vend  ce  qti'on  croit  qu'elle  dotine. 
(Fortune  but  sells  what  we  think  she  gives.) 

*' Or  this: 

Rien  ne  trotihle  sa  fin,  c'est  le  soir  d'un  beati  jour. 
(Nothing  disturbs  his  death;  it's  the  close  of  a  lovely  day.) 


112  THE  ART  OF  READING. 

"But,"  I  continued,  "as  to  gold  and  grandeur  being 
divinities  that  become  asylums  of  devouring  cares,  which 
in  their  turn  become  vultures  represented  by  the  son  of 
Japhet,  etc.  —  all  that  I  have  no  hesitation  in  denouncing 
as  unmitigated  stuff  and  nonsense." 

By  Jove  !  I  thought  Cousin  was  going  to  swallow  me, 
body  and  bones  !  Most  fortunately,  however,  the  session 
broke  up  at  that  moment  precisely,  and  everybody  began 
to  leave  the  room.  But  Cousin  overtook  me  at  the  door- 
way and  permitted  himself  to  exclaim  as  bluntly  as  you 
please : 

"You  're  probably  conceited  enough  to  imagine  you  know 
as  much  about  La  Fontaine  as  I  do  ?  " 

"Well,  I  rather  think  I  do,"  replied  I  with  a  smile. 

"You're  in  earnest?" 

"  Certainly  I'm  in  earnest.  I  know  more  of  La  Fon- 
taine than  you  do,  because  you  read  him  silently,  whereas 
I  read  him  aloud." 

"Oh!  the  argument!  " 

"An  excellent  argument.  Do  you  want  to  be  convinced 
of  its  soundness?" 

"Of  course  I  do!" 

Off  we  start  down  the  quays,  arm  in  arm,  hotly  discuss- 
ing the  question. 

"Has  not  La  Fontaine  written  nearly  all  his  Fables  in 
Free  Verses?"  I  begin. 

"Well,  suppose  he  has!" 

"First,  what  are  Free  Verses?  " 

"The  term  itself  expresses  the  meaning  perfectly.  Free 
verses  are  verses  that  rhyme  but  that  have  no  regular 
rhythm." 

"Not  at  all.  Free  Verses  have  just  as  much  rhythm  as 
Alexandrine  verses  or  any  other  verses,  only  it  is,  I  admit, 


FREE    VERSES,  II3 

a  concealed  rhythm.  Free  Verses  obey  a  rule,  a  mysterious 
but  a  real  rule,  a  rule  not  indeed  treated  of  in  the  rhetoric 
books,  but  nevertheless  just  as  surely  existing  and  always 
as  present  in  the  imagination  of  all  writers  of  true  poetic 
genius.  This  is  simply  the  reason  why  the  Free  Verses  of 
the  Seventeenth  Century  are  excellent  whilst  those  of  the 
Eighteenth,  except  a  few  of  Voltaire's,  are  all  mediocre. 
The  poets  never  guessed  the  secret." 

"What  secret?"  asks  Cousin,  ever  ready  to  take  fire  at 
anything  like  a  dogmatic  assertion  regarding  literature, 
though  now  evidently  somewhat  mollified  by  my  little  com- 
pliment to  his  beloved  Seventeenth  Century.  "What 
secret?  What  mysterious  rule  are  you  talking  about? 
Explain  the  meaning  of  your. hidden  rhythm." 

"No  easy  matter;  still Do  you  ever  take  a  ride 

on  horseback?" 

"Very  seldom  —  scarcely  ever." 

"That's  bad — well  —  you  have  no  doubt  often  heard 
of  the  famous  riding-masters  Monsieur  Baucher^"  and  Mon- 
sieur D'Aure?" 

"Oh  !  haven't  I?  When  I  was  minister,  what  endless 
discussions  we  had  as  to  which  of  them  we  should  make 
master  of  the  Saumur  school  of  cavalry.  The  Minister 
of  War  was  for  Baucher,  one  of  our  military  men  was  for 
D'Aure.  Why  so  ?  Hang  me  if  I  have  an  idea  on  the 
subject ! ' ' 

"I  think  I  can  give  you  one  or  two  while  I  am  at  the 
same  time  endeavoring  to  develop  my  theory  regarding 
Free  Verses." 

^'Fat'bleuf  cries  my  companion.  "This  is  something 
quite  original !  Poetry  illustrated  by  horse-riding  !  Go  on, 
my  dear  sir  !     I  am  all  attention  !  " 

"Baucher,"  I  resume,  ''^2.% par  excellence  the  Rider  of 
10*  H 


114  THE  ART   OF  READING. 

the  Ring.  No  sight  more  interesting  than  that  afforded 
by  a  horse  mounted,  that  is,  subdued,  mastered  by  Bau- 
cher.  How  complete  the  domination  of  the  man  over 
the  animal !  Trembling,  prancing,  palpitating,  exulting 
in  his  strength  though  quite  conscious  of  its  subjugation, 
the  horse  has  not  a  muscle  that  is  not  under  the  most  per- 
fect control.  The  foam  flecking  him,  here  and  there,  the 
nostrils  opening  and  closing  in  ardent  perturbation,  the 
net-work  of  swollen  veins  rising  in  such  high  relief  all 
over  his  body  —  all  betray  his  life,  his  strength,  his  fever- 
ish impatience,  his  hunger  after  freedom.  But  no  matter 
for  that !  Every  single  one  of  his  movements  is  rhythmi- 
cal j  every  single  one  of  his  paces  is  fore-arranged  ;  in- 
closed in  the  unyielding  circTe  of  his  master's  iron  limbs, 
his  abounding  energy  itself  becomes  the  very  perfection 
of  subordination  !  " 

"  Well ;  "  interrupts  my  companion,  "all  this  I  may  not 
dispute,  but  what  in  the  world " 

"  Wait  a  moment.  D'Aure,  on  the  contrary,  is  the 
dashing  rider  of  the  open  air.  A  great  difference  !  What 
D'Aure  requires  is  plenty  of  room.  What  he  demands  of 
his  horse  is  the  fullest  exertion  of  all  his  forces.  No  curb- 
ing in,  no  reining  up  now;  no  check-reins,  no  martingales! 
spurs,  if  anything,  and  a  touch  of  the  stinging  lash  !  See 
the  animal  speeding  past,  nose  in  air,  eye  aflame,  hair  and 
mane  streaming  in  the  breeze  !  Watch  him  as  he  skims  the 
plain,  fleet  as  an  arrow,  light  as  the  wind,  graceful  as  a 
bird  !  Who  is  the  master  now,  the  horse  or  the  man  ? 
The  man  as  much  as  ever !  His  is  the  direction  just  as 
much  as  the  inspiration  !  He  apparently  gives  the  animal 
the  wildest  liberty,  and  yields  with  pleasure  to  his  fieriest 
and  most  uncontrollable  impulse;  but  his  fingers  never 
abandon  the  guiding  rein,  nor  his  arm  the  curbing  bit ! 


FREE    VERSES.  II5 

So,  while  Baucher's  horse,  though  a  captive,  subdued,  sub- 
missive, is  as  powerful  in  his  strength  as  ever,  D'Aure's, 
though  apparently  independent  as  the  raging  blast,  is  as 
much  under  control  as  the  rider's  little  finger." 

"I  think  I  understand  you  now,"  said  Cousin  with  a 
smile.  "Baucher's  horse  is  epic  or  Alexandrine  versifica- 
tion, and " 

''Precisely!  and  D'Aure's  is  the  rhythm  of  Free  Verses. 
Here  the  artist,  instead  of  confining  the  play  of  his  inspira- 
tion within  a  circle  traced  beforehand,  abandons  it  to  its 
natural  bent,  gives  it  full  scope,  follows  it  through  all  its 
windings,  expresses  it  in  all  its  mobile  plasticity,  changes 
the  rhythm  with  every  change  of  idea,  and  thus  succeeds 
in  imparting  more  justice,  truth,  and  reality  to  multitudes 
of  delicate,  elegant,  airy,  and  graceful  sentiments.  But 
this  unrestraint  must  never  degenerate  into  listlessness  or 
license.  The  freer  from  a  master  is  the  true  artist,  the 
stricter  and  severer  he  is  towards  himself.  He  is  always 
contriving  therefore  to  relieve  the  freedom  of  the  rhythm 
by  the  number  and  variety  of  the  rhymes,  by  bolder  and 
more  striking  expressions,  by  newer  and  more  captivating 
ideas,  so  that  we  are  always  instinctively  conscious  of 
power  as  well  as  of  grace,  of  severe  art  as  well  as  of  playful 
negligence.  Free  Verses,  though  not  a  canal  with  straight 
banks,  are  by  no  means  an  ocean  without  coasts.  They 
are  rather  a  river  whose  shores  are  winding,  flexible,  vary- 
ing, flowery,  but  everywhere  strictly  regular  in  spite  of 
their  apparent  irregularity." 

**This  theory  of  yours  may  have  something  in  it.  But 
sustain  it,  pray,  by  means  of  a  few  examples.  Show  me 
some  passage  where  the  poet  says  by  a  free  verse  something 
that  the  regular  verse  could  not  so  well  express." 


Il6  THE   ART  OF  READING, 

**  Take  this  stanza  from  the  English  poem  Genevieve  :'^ 

She  wept  with  pity  and  delight, 

She  blushed  with  love  and  virgin  shame  ; 

And,  like  the  murmur  of  a  dream, 
I  heard  her  breathe  my  name. 

"  Nothing  would  have  been  easier  than  to  give  to  the 
fourth  or  last  verse  the  metre  of  the  preceding  three;  it 
would  be  enough  to  insert  '  softly '  and  say : 
I  heard  her  softly  breathe  my  name. 

''But  try  it.  You  will  find  that  the  delicate  aroma  of 
the  poetry  has  vanished  like  a  shadow." 

''It  is  true  !  — Another  example." 

"La  Fontaine  all  through  is  one  long  example.  His 
rigorous  but  graceful  imagination  has  continual  recourse  to 
Free  Verses  for  fitly  rendering  the  incessant  variation  of 
his  ideas.  Do  you  remember  the  six  verses  of  the  Peasant 
of  the  Danube,  beginning  with  four  sweeping  Alexandrines, 
and  ending  with  two  lines  of  only  four  feet  each  ? 

Craignez,  Romains,  craignez  que  les  dieux  quelque  jour,  etc., 
Nos  esclaves  d  voire  tour  I 

"We  cannot  sufficiently  admire  the  wonderful  art  that 
terminates  the  solemn,  stately,  and  threatening  march  of 
the  four  Alexandrines  with  the  sudden,  unexpected  and  ter- 
rible blow  struck  by  those  two  rapid  lines  of  eight  sylla- 
bles ! " 

"It  is  perfectly  true !  "  cries  Cousin.  "But  how  have 
you  come  across  such  reflections  as  these?" 

"I  have  told  you  how  already  —  by  reading  aloud  !     The 

*  We  need  hardly  apologize  for  substituting  here  a  well  known 
English  example  for  the  French  poetry  which  to  many  readers  would 
be  rather  unintelligible. 


FREE    VERSES.  II7 

voice  is  a  revealer,  an  initiater  into  mysteries,  that  pos- 
sesses a  power  as  mysterious  as  it  is  unsuspected." 

**  I  beg  your  pardon  —  I  don't  quite  understand  you." 

"You  shall  in  a  moment.  A  celebrated  actress  of  the 
last  century,  Madame  Talma " 

*'I  have  seen  her!  "  interrupts  Cousin  with  animation. 
**  What  a  soul !     Of  what  exquisite  sensibility !  " 

**Well,  Madame  Talma  relates  in  her  Memoirs  that,  as 
she  was  playing  Andromache  one  evening,  she  felt  herself 
so  profoundly  moved  that  the  tears  flowed  not  only  from 
the  spectators'  eyes  but  even  from  her  own.  The  play  over, 
one  of  her  admirers,  rushing  up,  takes  her  hand  and  cries : 

*  Oh  my  dear  friend  !  It  was  admirable!  You  were  Androm- 
ache herself!  You  must  have  imagined  yourself  to  be 
really   living   in    Epirus,  Hector's   disconsolate   widow !  ' 

*  Not  at  all ! '  replies  Madame  laughing  merrily.  *  But  you 
were  certainly  moved  !  I  saw  real  tears  !  '  '  Yes,  I  wept 
real  tears.'  *  But  on  what  account?  What  made  you  weep 
if  not  emotion?'  *  My  own  voice.'  *How  your  own 
voice?'  *  Exactly,  my  own  voice.  What  really  affected 
me  was  .the  expression  that  my  voice  gave  to  poor  Androm- 
ache^ s  sufferings,  and  not  by  any  means  the  thought  of 
the  sufferings  themselves.  The  nervous  shudder  that  thrilled 
my  whole  frame  was  an  electric  shock  given  to  my  nerves 
by  my  own  accents.  I  was  at  once  actress  and  audience. 
I  actually  magnetized  myself  " 

"  Decidedly  a  strange  fact !  "  observes  Cousin. 

"  But  what  a  striking  instance  of  the  power  of  the  human 
voice  I " 

**It  is  certainly  a  psychological  phenomenon,"  continues 
Cousin,  "which  I  have  never  had  a  glimpse  of  in  all  my 
studies." 

"Ohl"  I  reply,  quoting  Shakespeare,  "  there  are  more 


Il8  THE   ART  OF  READING. 

things  in  heaven  and  earth,  Horatio,  than  are  dreamt  of 
in  your  philosophy.  But  an  experience  of  this  kind  is  by 
no  means  confined  to  Madame  Talma.  Rachel  told  me 
something  one  day  that  I  can  never  forget.  She  was 
speaking  of  her  recitations  at  Potsdam  in  the  presence  of 
the  Emperor  of  Russia,  the  Emperor  of  Austria,  the  King 
of  Prussia,  and  other  sovereigns.  'Such  a  flower-bed  of 
kings,'  said  she,  *  actually  electrified  me.  Never  before 
liad  I  hit  on  truer  or  more  powerful  accents.  My  voice 
actually  enchanted  my  own  ears. ' ' ' 

''Were  these  Rachel's  own  words?" 

"Her  actual  words.  But  that  is  not  all.  One  of  our 
first  living  artists  has  often  told  me  that  he  never  could 
succeed  in  reaching  those  pathetic  tones  of  his  that  so 
profoundly  affected  the  audience,  without  having  previ- 
ously learned  his  part  aloud.  It  was  his  own  voice  that 
touched  him,  guided  him,  and  always  assured  him  when 
he  was  right.  This  throws  some  light  on  another  strange 
fact,  generally  held  inexplicable.  Stupid  players  have  been 
actually  known  to  play  like  men  of  undoubted  wit." 

"  Oh  !     That 's  impossible  !  " 

"I  have  known  some  instances  of  the  kind  myself. 
Yes.  I  have  seen  men  of  only  mediocre  intelligence,  wit, 
soul,  or  whatever  you  call  it,  who,  once  on  the  stage, 
made  the  best  of  us  think,  tremble,  and  even  weep. 
How  so,  you  ask.  Well,  their  voice  did  it  all.  Their 
voice  supplied  all  the  lacking  wit,  the  intelligence,  the 
emotion.  Condemn  them  to  silence  —  they  instantly  re- 
lapse into  their  normal  nullity.  Some  cunning  fairy  is 
fast  asleep  in  their  throat  while  they  are  silent ;  but  once 
they  begin  to  speak,  she'  wakes  up  and  with  a  wave  of  her 
magic  wand  summons  to  her  aid  powers  and  resources  till 
then  invisible  and  unknown.     Indeed  the  voice  may  be 


FREE   VERSES.  1 19 

considered  an  invisible  actor  concealed  within  the  player, 
an  invisible  speaker  concealed  within  the  reader, —  and 
performing  for  both  the  part  of  a  first-rate  prompter.  In 
fact,  my  dear  philosopher,  this  is  a  problem  that  I  must 
surrender  altogether  to  your  meditations,  satisfying  myself 
with  drawing  one  little  deduction  —  However  inferior  I 
undoubtedly  am  to  you  in  many  respects,  it  is  possible 
that  I  may  know  La  Fontaine  a  little  better  than  you, 
simply  because  I  generally  read  him  aloud  !  " 

"That  point  I  waive  the  discussion  of  just  now,"  replies 
my  interlocutor  with  a  merry  smile,  ''but  suppose  you  give 
La  Fontaine  and  the  other  great  writers  that  you  undertake 
to  interpret,  meanings,  allusions,  and  intentions  that  they 
themselves  never  had  the  least  idea  of?" 

"To  such  a  supposition  I  should  reply  in  the  words  of 
the  illustrious  Corneille  hiniself.  Somebody  pointed  out 
to  him  one  day  certain  verses  of  his  that  were  anything  but 
clear,  asking  him  to  explain  their  meaning.  He  looked  at 
them  for  a  while,  and  then  replied  :  '  When  I  wrote  these 
verses,  I  am  certain  I  understood  them ;  at  present  I  must 
confess  they  are  not  a  bit  clearer  to  myself  than  they  are  to 
you.*  Thus  even  the  great  masters,  you  see,  do  not  always 
comprehend  their  own  mysteries.  In  the  fire  and  glow  of 
creation,  they  unconsciously  give  but  half  expression  to 
ideas,  of  the  full  force  of  which  they  are  not  probably  com- 
pletely aware,  but  which  are  nevertheless  just  as  real,  solid, 
and  consistent  as  those  ideas  that  they  have  most  highly 
elaborated.  Genius,  as  well  as  beauty,  as  well  as  infancy, 
has  its  unconscious  moments.  A  child  enchanting  you  by 
the  innocence  of  his  smile  is  seldom  aware  that  his  smile 
looks  innocent.  But  is  it  the  less  innocent  for  that  ?  Well 
then,  one  of  the  very  greatest  advantages  of  reading  master- 
pieces aloud  is  that  it  gradually  but  forcibly  reveals  to  us 


I20  THE  ART  OF  READING. 

thousands  of  exquisite  little  touches  that  seem  to  be  actu- 
ally unknown  to  the  very  pencil  that  has  created  them. 
This  alone  would  be  enough  to  make  the  art  of  reading  a 
powerful  instrument  in  education.  Elocution  teaches  us 
literature,  just  as  successfully  as  it  improves  our  diction." 

Here  we  parted.  But  just  as  Cousin  turned  away,  he 
uttered  a  few  words  of  which,  coming  from  such  lips,  I 
must  confess  I  feel  rather  proud  ; 

''Thank  you,  my  dear  friend ;  you  have  certainly  taught 
me  something  I  had  not  known  before." 


PROPERiy  OF 
DEPMTMEflT  OF  DRAMATIC  ART 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

A  SOUVENIR   OF  RACHEL. 

THUS  far  I  have  been  trying  to  enumerate  some  of  the 
pleasures  of  the  art  of  reading.  I  intend  to  conclude 
by  giving  you  two  illustrative  instances,  personal  and  strik- 
ing, of  its  great  utility.  In  one,  my  humble  talent  as  reader 
did  me  an  immense  service.  The  other  contributed  power- 
fully towards  procuring  for  me  a  deep  and  never  to  be  for- 
gotten heart-joy. 

The  first  will  take  a  whole  chapter  for  itself. 

The  drama  now  so  well  known,  Adrienne  Lecouvreur, 
in  which  the  chief  incident  is  the  death  of  an  eminent 
actress  by  means  of  a  poisoned  bouquet  presented  by  a 
jealous  rival,  was  the  joint  composition  of  Scribe  and  my- 
self, and  had  been  undertaken  by  us  expressly  for  Rachel 
at  her  own  suggestion ;  I  might  even  say  at  her  own  re- 
quest. But  the  few  months  that  we  devoted  to  writing  the 
piece  had  the  effect  of  disgusting  Mademoiselle  with  it. 
Changeful  and  fickle  by  nature,  she  was  still  more  so  by 
instability  of  character.  She  was  continually  asking  every- 
body's opinion,  and  of  course  everybody's  opinion  left  its 
impression.  The  few  jesting  remarks  of  some  thoughtless 
critic  completely  disenchanted  her  with  the  idea  that  had 
transported  her  with  delight  five  minutes  before.  This 
was  at  least  the  case  with  our  poor  Adfienne.  Rachel's 
last  advisers  completely  frightened  her  off.  Such  a  dar- 
ing, not  to  say  unbecoming,  departure  from  the  legitimate 

II  121 


122  THE  ART  OF  READING. 

drama  !  What !  Hermione  and  Paulina  consent  to  speak 
in  prose  !  The  daughter  of  Corneille  and  Racine  become 
the  stepdaughter  of  Monsieur  Scribe  !  Unheard  of  prof- 
anation ! 

On  the  day  of  the  reading,  therefore,  you  may  be  sure 
Mademoiselle  came  to  our  meeting  fully  determined  to 
refuse  the  part.  The  hall  was  quite  full ;  the  actresses  — 
at  that  time  they  were  permitted  to  be  judges  as  well  as  the 
others  —  were  quite  as  numerous  as  the  actors;  and  a  cer- 
tain quiet,  court  air  prevailed  all  over  the  assembly,  strik- 
ing me  the  very  instant  I  entered  with  an  uneasy,  chilling 
foreboding. 

Scribe  took  the  manuscript  and  began  to  read.  I  buried 
myself  in  an  arm-chair  and  quietly  watched. 

I  soon  became  aware  of  a  double  play  taking  place  all 
round  me  and  compelling  me  to  be  a  most  interested  spec- 
tator. First,  there  was  our  own,  performed  by  Scribe's 
tongue ;  second,  there  was  the  other,  progressing  silently 
in  the  hearts  of  the  judges  but  visible  as  a  noonday  sun  to 
the  eye  of  a  watchful  observer.  Vaguely  informed  of  the 
secret  dispositions  of  their  illustrious  comrade,  the  judges 
felt  themselves  to  be  in  a  somewhat  perplexing  predica- 
ment. A  work  written  for  Mademoiselle  Rachel  but  one 
which  Mademoiselle  Rachel  herself  was  unwilling  to  play, 
was  decidedly  capable,  if  received  by  the  committee,  of 
becoming  a  subject  replete  with  difficulties  of  many  kinds, 
vexatious  lawsuits  not  being  the  least  of  the  number. 

Instead  of  listening  to  Scribe  therefore  as  he  rolled  off 
Adrienne,  the  judges  carefully  watched  Rachel's  counte- 
nance, and,  as  this  countenance  preserved  a  marble  impas- 
sibility, the  other  countenances  preserved  a  marble  impas- 
sibility too.  During  the  whole  course  of  these  five  long 
acts,  she  never  smiled,  never  approved,  never  applauded. 


A   SOUVENIR    OF  RACHEL.  1 23 

During  the  whole  course  of  these  five  long  acts,  the  others 
never  smiled,  never  approved,  never  applauded.  Tlie 
universal  stillness,  in  fact,  was  so  complete  that  Scribe, 
thinking  he  saw  one  of  the  judges  falling  asleep,  inter- 
rupted the  reading  to  exclaim  with  great  politeness : 

"  Don't  mind  me,  my  dear  sir  !    No  ceremony,  I  beg  !  " 

The  judge  defended  himself  very  earnestly,  and  that  was 
the  only  incident  of  the  reading.  Stay  —  I  am  wrong  — 
there  was  another  incident  or  at  least  the  beginning  of 
one.  In  the  last  scene  but  one  of  the  fifth  act.  Mademoi- 
selle, interested  in  the  situation  in  spite  of  herself,  raised 
her  back  a  little  from  the  arm-chair  in  which  she  had  been 
reclining  as  motionless  as  if  she  formed  part  of  it,  and 
leaned  forward  slightly,  as  if  to  listen  with  intentness  to 
what  was  said  ;  but,  noticing  that  I  had  caught  the  move- 
ment, she  sank  back  quickly  into  the  arm-chair  and  in- 
stantly resumed  the  marble  countenance. 

The  reading  over.  Scribe  and  I  went  into  the  director's 
room,  where  the  director  himself  joined  us  in  a  few  mo- 
ments, and  told  us,  with  an  air  of  regret  probably  quite 
sincere,  that  Mademoiselle  Rachel  "did  not  see  herself" 
in  Adrienne,  and,  as  the  work  had  been  composed  expressly 
for  her,  that  the  committee  would  prefer  taking  no  imme- 
diate action  upon  it. 

"  In  other  words,"  observed  Scribe  as  we  left  the  room, 
"our  piece  is  refused.  Good  !  To  him  who  knows  how 
to  wait,  everything  comes  all  right  at  last  !  " 

Next  morning  three  different  theatre  managers  came  to 
make  us  offers  for  the  work.  Scribe,  who  dearly  loved 
retaliation  and  above  all  things  liked  his  vengeance  to  be 
served  up  hot,  wished  to  close  the  bargain  at  once.  But  I 
demurred. 

"No,  my  dear  friend,"  said  I,  "our  piece  was  written 


124  THE  ART  OF  READING. 

for  the  Thedtre-Fran^ais ,  and  it  is  in  the  The^tre-Fran^ais 
that  it  must  be  played.  The  part  was  composed  for  Rachel, 
and  Rachel  will  have  to  act  it." 

*'  But  how  induce  Rachel  to  act  it  ?  " 

"  How?  I  don't  know  !  But  Rachel  will  play  it,  and 
nobody  else  !  While  we  were  working  at  the  piece,  though 
your  share  in  it  is  considerably  larger  than  mine,  you  often 
honored  me  by  saying  that  I  understood  Adrienne  better 
than  you.  I  always  believed  in  fact  that  there  was  some- 
thing original  and  striking  in  the  tragic  actress  who  has 
learned  nobility  of  character  from  the  noble  heroines  she 
is  so  fond  of  representing,  and  who,  by  dint  of  interpreting 
the  great  Corneille,  has  imbibed  into  her  soul  some  of  the 
great  Corneille's  grandeur!  Therefore,  this  great  person- 
age must  appear  nowhere  else  than  in  the  theatre  of  the 
great  Corneille  himself  !  " 

My  earnestness  half  convinced  Scribe.  He  promised  to 
wait  a  little.  The  managers  became  more  importunate,  one 
of  them  saying,  by  way  of  an  irresistible  argument : 

"  My  leading  lady  has  never  died  on  the  stage.  She 
would  love  dearly  to  be  poisoned  !  " 

Arguments  of  this  kind  I  had  no  great  difficulty  in  meet- 
ing, but,  when  six  months  had  passed  without  improving 
the  appearance  of  things.  Scribe  protested  that  he  would 
wait  no  longer. 

"Give  me  but  a  week,"  I  replied,  "you  are  going  to 
spend  a  few  days  at  Sericourt.  Start  on  your  trip  to-day. 
At  your  return,  if  I  have  done  nothing,  I  surrender  grace- 
fully." 

"All  right,"  was  Scribe's  answer.  "This  day  week  ] 
shall  expect  you  to  breakfast  at  eleven." 

"  Farewell,  till  eleven  o'clock  this  day  week  !  " 

Off  he  started,  and  here  is  what  I  did. 


A   SOUVENIR    OF  RACHEL.  125 

(Of  course  it  will  be  readily  understood  that  what  I  shall 
be  obliged  to  say  on  my  own  account  during  the  remainder 
of  this  short  story,  must  not  be  considered  as  arrogating 
to  myself  the  chief  share  in  our  joint  work.  I  had  not  the 
chief  share  in  it.  The  contrary  is  precisely  the  case.  If 
it  were  possible  to  measure  our  respective  shares,  Scribe's 
would  certainly  prove  the  greater.) 

A  new  director  had  been  appointed  for  the  Thedtre- 
Fran^ais.  I  called  on  him  at  once  and  spoke  to  him  in 
substance  pretty  much  as  follows : 

"You  are  aware  that  Mademoiselle  Rachel  has  refused 
our  piece.  Had  she  the  right  to  refuse  it?  That  I  don't 
know.  Had  she  the  right  to  put  her  refusal  in  such  a  form  ? 
That  I  do  know.  She  certainly  had  no  such  right.  That 
was  not  the  way  to  return  to  such  a  man  as  Monsieur  Scribe 
a  work  that  he  had  been  requested  to  produce.  That  was 
rather  offensive  treatment  of  a  master  in  the  highest  rank 
and,  permit  me  to  add,  of  a  young  man  who  is  not  in 
the  lowest.  Mademoiselle  Rachel,  no  doubt,  is  long  since 
well  aware  of  all  this  and  must  regret  her  precipitancy. 
Such  talents  as  hers  cannot  but  be  acquainted  with  some 
of  the  commonest  usages  of  politeness.  Now,  a  way  is  still 
left  to  bring  about  a  fair  understanding  between  us,  to  rec- 
oncile her  own  interests  and  ours.  I  shall  ask  her  formally, 
not  to  play  our  piece,  but  to  listen  to  it  fairly,  not  in  the 
theatre,  not  before  her  fellow  artists,  but  in  her  own  parlor, 
in  the  presence  of  a  few  of  her  most  intimate  friends.  She 
may  choose  them  herself.  She  may  invite  as  many  or  as 
few  as  she  pleases.  I  shall  come  alone  with  my  manuscript. 
If  the  work  is  then  pronounced  unsuitable,  I  take  away  tlie 
piece  and  we  shall  consider  the  matter  finally  settled.  But 
if- it  pleases  Mademoiselle  and  her  friends,  she  will  play  it, 
II* 


126  THE  ART  OF  READING. 

she  will  have  a  grand  success,  and  she  will  call  me  her  de* 
liverer." 

*'  The  offer  is  accepted,"  wrote  Rachel  that  very  even- 
ing to  her  friends;   "I  cannot  refuse  Monsieur  Legouve's 

request,  but  I  shall  never  play  that "     I  must  omit 

the  term  she  employed  to  express  her  disdain  —  it  is  enough 
to  say  that  it  was  more  expressive  than  polite. 

The  second  succeeding  evening  was  the  one  appointed 
for  the  reading;  the  judges  selected  by  Mademoiselle 
were  Janin",  Merle''',  Rolle'%  and  the  director  of  the  The- 
atre-Fran(;ais. 

I  felt,  no  doubt,  a  little  flustered  as  I  entered  the  room, 
but  I  was  quite  master  of  myself.  I  knew  I  was  in  the 
right,  and  had  carefully  trained  myself  for  the  encounter. 
I  had  reflected  over  the  question  with  myself  somewhat  in 
this  way:  Scribe  was  certainly  an  excellent  reader,  and 
had  really  read  our  piece  admirably  before  the  committee, 
all  but  in  one  part  —  that  of  Adrienne.  In  my  opinion  he 
had  not  individualized  this  role  sufficiently  for  Rachel ;  he 
had  read  it  certainly  with  much  spirit,  grace,  warmth,  but, 
as  I  thought,  not  without  some  of  the  mannerism  of  a 
young  leading  actress  ;  the  grandeur  I  considered  rather 
tame ;  the  heroine  was  rather  obscured  under  the  woman. 
Now  it  was  with  this  precise  point  that  I  had  determined 
to  attack  Mademoiselle,  to  capture  her,  to  tame  her,  to 
break  her  in,  as  it  were,  by  presenting  her  a  new  but  still 
a  grand  and  noble  personage.  Her  success  would  be  no 
easy  matter ;  her  attempt  would  be  beset  with  great  danger 
and  difficulty.  To  diminish  this  danger,  and  to  smooth 
down  this  difficulty  as  much  as  possible,  was  evidently  our 
business.  It  was  our  business  to  sketch  in  faint  but  tangi- 
ble outline  how  she  was  to  pass  gradually  from  one  line  of 
character  to  another,  and   to  convince  Rachel  hersel/  that 


A   SOUVENIR    OF  RACHEL.  12/ 

what  the  public  would  consider  a  complete  metamdrphosis 
was  in  reality  to  her  nothing  more  difficult  than  a  mere 
change  of  costume.  This  was  the  point  that  Scribe  had 
not  sufficiently  insisted  on  ;  this  was  the  fine  shading  that 
he  had  not  sufficiently  brought  out;  and  this  was  precisely 
what  I  had  been  carefully  preparing  myself  during  the  last 
two  days  to  render  perfectly  visible  and  palpable  to  my  au- 
dience in  general,  but  to  Mademoiselle  herself  in  particular. 

I  arrive.  A  charming  reception,  full  of  that  wheedling, 
cajoling,  coaxing  grace  that  became  her  so  well.  Her  own 
fair  hands  prepare  my  glass  of  sugared  water;  her  own  fair 
hands  bring  me  a  chair ;  her  own  fair  hands  dispose  the 
curtains  so. that  I  may  have  the  benefit  of  the  most  favor- 
able light.  I  could  not  help  smiling  to  myself,  remember- 
ing, as  I  did  too  well,  the  famous  phrase  "I  will  never 

play  that "  and  knowing,  as  I  did  too  well,  the  whole 

why  and  wherefore  of  all  this  pretty  strategy.  It  was  to 
sugar-coat  the  pill.  How  could  so  sweet  and  courteous  a 
listener  be  ever  suspected  of  secret  ill-will  and  malice  pre- 
pense? It  was  all  what  is  called  in  French  theatrical  slan^. 
preparation,  and  in  English  humbug. 

I  begin.  During  the  whole  first  act  Mademoiselle  ap- 
plauded, approved,  smiled — did,  in  short,  exactly  the  con- 
trary to  what  she  had  done  at  the  committee  reading. 
Why  so  ?  Oh !  why  so  !  It  was  easy  to  tell.  Her  part 
was  well  prepared.  As  an  excuse  for  her  rejection  she 
wanted  to  be  able  to  say  that  Adrimne* s  character  did  not 
suit  her,  and  as  Adrienne  does  not  appear  before  the  second 
act,  praising  the  first  act  could  evidently  do  no  harm,  don't 
you  see  ?  On  the  contrary,  her  very  praises  would  give  an 
air  of  impartiality  to  her  subsequent  strictures  and  spread 
an  air  of  sincerity  over  the  regrets  of  her  subsequent 
refusal. 


128  THE  ART  OF  READING. 

More  ^^ preparation,^'  more  humbug.  But  unfortunately 
here,  as  often  elsewhere,  humbug  overshot  its  mark.  The 
acting  was  so  exceedingly  good  that  it  did  not  pass  for  act- 
ing at  all.  Her  friends,  witnessing  what  they  considered 
her  genuine  satisfaction,  began  to  experience  something 
like  satisfaction  themselves  and,  seeing  her  applaud  warmly, 
followed  suit  in  applauding  warmly  too.  The  reader,  em- 
boldened by  all  these  unequivocal  signs  of  approbation, 
p)lucked  up  new  courage,  and  got  to  the  first  act  in  right 
good  style,  holding  his  audience  well  in  hand.  In  fact,  to 
change  the  metaphor,  he  felt  himself  already  sailing  se- 
renely under  a  press  of  canvas,  impelled  by  that  electric 
current  of  success  which  is  so  well  known  to  dramatic 
authors  and  which  he  is  sure  will  manifest  itself  so  thril- 
ingly  at  the  decisive  moment  of  victory. 

In  the  second  act  Adrienne  makes  her  appearance,  hold- 
ing in  her  hand  the  part  oi  Bajazet  which  she  is  studying. 
The  Prince  de  Bouillon  approaches  her  and  observes 
gaily:  "You  still  appear  to  be  looking  for  something; 
what  is  it  may  I  ask?"  "I  am  looking  for  the  truth!" 
she  replies.  "  Bravo  I  bravo  !  "  exclaimed  Janin.  ''Oh  I  " 
said  I  to  myself,  ''that  must  be  a  friend,  for  certainly  the 
word  does  not  merit  a  bravo."  Mademoiselle  too  was  a 
little  startled,  and  gave  Janin  a  look  that  seemed  to  say : 
"What!  A  traitor  here?"  Fortunately  the  "traitor's" 
opinion  soon  became  everybody  else's  opinion.  Rachel, 
surprised  and  very  much  embarrassed  at  not  finding  her- 
self filled  with  her  former  disdain,  made  but  a  feeble  re- 
sistance against  the  general  impression,  and  at  the  end  of 
the  second  act  even  chimed  in  with  the  general  sentiment 
by  saying,  "Well,  I  always  thought  there  was  something 
in  that  second  act." 

This  was  her  last  semblance  of  defence.     From  the  very 


A  SOUVENIR   OF  RACHEL.  1 29 

beginning  of  the  third  act  she  ridded  herself  of  her  for- 
mer prejudices  as  completely  as  politicians  do  of  unpopu- 
lar opinions.  She  applauded,  she  laughed,  she  shed  tears, 
every  now  and  then  muttering  "What  a  silly  simpleton  I 
have  been!"  At  the  end  of  the  fifth  act,  she  actually 
threw  herself  on  my  neck,  exclaiming  with  streaming 
eyes : 

*'  How  have  you  kept  yourself  off  the  stage?" 

The  reader  had  saved  the  author. 

I  was  charmed  and  flattered  beyond  measure,  you  may  be 
sure ;  the  more  especially  as,  a  few  months  before  this,  hav- 
ing heard  Guizot^*  deliver  a  rousing  speech  on  some  occa- 
sion or  other,  she  had  cried  out : 

"How  I  should  have  liked  to  play  tragedy  with  such  a 
man!" 

Next  morning,  at  eleven  o'clock  precisely,  I  rang  Scribe's 
bell. 

"Well,"  he  cried,  with  a  bantering  air  and  evidently 
expecting  to  have  a  good  laugh,  "what  luck?  How  did 
you  get  on  ?  " 

My  only  answer  was  to  pull  out  one  of  the  regular  no- 
rices  sent  to  the  actors  and  read  it : 

^^  Theatre- Fran<;ais ,  this  day  at  noon,  first  rehearsal  of 
Adrienne  Lecouvreur." 

"What ! !  "  he  exclaimed  ;  he  was  actually  too  stupefied 
to  utter  another  word. 

I  told  him  the  whole  story,  and  a  month  afterwards  the 
curtain  rose  for  the  first  and  extremely  successful  represen- 
tation of  our  joint  production. 

That  month  revealed  to  me  also  a  curious  instance  of 
the  weird  and  strangely  mysterious  emotions  that  are  often 
attendant  on  dramatic  interpretation. 

One  evening,  a  few  days  before  the  first  representation 


I30  THE  ART  OF  READING, 

of  Adrienne,  the  regular  business  of  the  theatre  was  inter- 
rupted for  a  regular  stage  rehearsal.  Scribe,  detained  at 
the  Grand  Opera  by  preparations  for  Le  Prophete,  could 
not  be  present.  Incessant  corrections  and  repetitions  de- 
layed us  all  so  long  that  it  was  fully  eleven  o'clock  before 
we  got  through  the  first  four  acts.  In  fact  it  was  so  late 
that  we  concluded  it  was  time  to  stop  altogether.  Every- 
body had  gone  away  except  Rachel,  Regnier,  Maillart''' 
and  myself.     All  at  once  Rachel  exclaims  : 

"  Here  we  are  all  alone,  monarchs  of  all  we  survey. 
Suppose  we  try  the  fifth  act  ?  I  have  not  rehearsed  it  yet. 
But  I  have  been  studying  it  carefully  for  the  last  three  days 
and  I  should  like  to  know  how  I  am  succeeding." 

We  go  out  on  the  vast  stage.  No  gas,  no  footlights,  no 
light  at  all  in  fact  but  the  little  argand  lamp  standing  be- 
side the  vacant  prompter's  hole.  No  spectators  even, 
except  a  fireman  fast  asleep  on  a  chair  between  the 
"wings,"  and  myself  seated  among  the  music-stands  of 
the  orchestra. 

From  the  very  beginning  something  in  Rachel's  ac- 
cents thrilled  me  to  the  heart.  Never  before  had  I  seen 
her  so  truly,  simply  and  affectingly  tragic.  The  flicker- 
ing little  smoky  lamp  threw  lividities  on  her  face  that 
were  absolutely  terrifying,  whilst  the  emptiness  of  the 
great  auditorium  imparted  to  her  voice  a  strange  sonority 
that  startled  as  well  as  enthralled.  The  effect  was  death- 
like ! 

The  act  over,  on  our  return  to  the  foyer,  I  happened  to 
look  into  a  mirror,  and  could  not  help  noticing  how  pale 
my  face  was.  Regnier  and  Maillart  too  were  like  sheets. 
As  for  Rachel,  she  sat  for  some  time  in  a  corner,  silent, 
fluttering  nervously,  and  wiping  the  tears  that  still  streamed 
down  her  cheeks.     I  went  up  to  her,  pointing,  by  way  of 


•  A   SOUVENIR    OF  RACHEL.  I3I 

compliment,  at  her  companions'  faces,  and  saying  as  I  took 
her  hand : 

"  Dear  friend,  you  have  played  that  fifth  act  as  you  will 
never  play  it  again  in  all  your  life." 

'*That  is  my  own  conviction,"  she  replied;  "but  do 
you  know  why  ?  " 

**  I  think  I  do.  None  being  here  to  applaud,  you  never 
thought  of  acting  for  effect ;  so  you  became  in  your  own 
imagination  poor  Adrienne  expiring  at  midnight  in  the 
arms  of  her  two  friends." 

After  thinking  over  this  observation  for  a  few  moments, 
she  replied : 

"No.  That 's  not  it.  An  exceedingly  strange  phenom- 
enon took  place  within  me.  It  is  not  over  Adrienne  that 
I  have  been  weeping — but  over  myself!  Something  sud- 
denly  told  me  that,  like  Adrienne,  I  should  die  young.  I 
felt  as  if  I  was  lying  in  my  own  room,  at  my  last  moments, 
present  at  my  own  death !  —  And  when  I  repeated  the 
lines :  *  Farewell,  dramatic  triumphs  !  Farewell,  entranc- 
ing art  that  I  have  loved  so  much '  —  you  saw  me  shed 
real  tears.  With  mournful  despair  I  was  rapidly  realizing 
how  soon  time  would  sweep  away  every  recollection  of  my 
little  talents,  and  how  the  world  would  soon  be  left  without 
the  faintest  trace  of  poor  Rachel !  " 

Alas  !  poor  Rachel's  presentiments  were  only  too  well 
founded !  A  very  few  years  later  she  lay  on  her  death-bed, 
like  her  sister  Rebecca,  and  of  the  same  hopeless,  fell  dis- 
ease too,  at  a  little  village  in  the  south  of  France.  In  the 
hospitable  home  of  a  warm-hearted  relative  of  Sardou's^^  she 
had  received  a  singularly  warm  and  sympathetic  hospitality. 
In  this  romanesque  villa  of  his  he  had,  however,  indulged 
his  somewhat  mystical  love  for  the  fanciful  by  accumulating 
in  strange  and  curious  contrast  many  monuments  of  the  dif- 


132  THE  ART  OF  READING. 

ferent  religions  of  the  far  East.  Every  piece  of  furniture 
in  every  room  was  symbolic  of  something.  Arriving  hur- 
riedly from  her  long  journey,  and  almost  completely  ex- 
hausted, Rachel,  without  looking  around,  had  hardly 
strength  enough  left  to  throw  herself  on  a  bed.  Waking 
up  suddenly  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  she  utters  a  wild 
shriek  of,  terror !  Her  eyeballs  stare  in  a  stony  agony ! 
What  does  she  see  ?  The  bed  on  which  she  lay  was  shaped 
like  a  tomb,  and  right  before  her  eyes  and  almost  within 
arm's  reach  she  sees  the  misshapen  figure. of  a  woman  stoop- 
ing as  if  to  seize  her.  It  was  only  a  wooden  image  holding 
the  curtain. 

"  It 's  Death!  "  she  screamed  at  last,  flinging  herself  mad- 
ly out  of  the  bed.  ''Help!  Help!  Protect  me  against 
Death!  " 

Her  last  days  were  passed  in  those  alternate  fits  of  ter- 
rible illusion  and  gloomy  consciousness  that  are  peculiar 
to  organic  maladies.     She  often  said  : 

''About  six  hours  of  the  day  I  grasp  at  something  like 
hope  ;  the  other  hours  I  see  nothing  but  black  despair." 

Her  sufferings,  strange  to  say,  sometimes  revealed  them- 
selves in  plastic  attitudes  full  of  a  soft  and  graceful  ele- 
gance —  attitudes  of  which,  no  doubt,  she  was  fully  con- 
scious, for  never,  even  when  writhing  under  the  severest 
bodily  agony,  did  she  cease  for  a  moment  to  see  herself. 
In  this  she  resembled  all  the  great  dramatic  actors.  They 
are  to  themselves  an  everlasting,  never  wearying,  always 
interesting  spectacle.  However  great  their  despair,  how- 
ever rending  their  suffering,  they  can  always  eye  it  calmly 
like  a  spectator  and  see  that  it  becomes  them.  Rachel 
knew  that  she  exhibited  the  elegant  pose  of  a  young  hero- 
ine dying  of  a  deadly  disease ;  by  way  of  variety,  she  some- 
times outlined  a  graceful  statue  of  grief. 


A   SOUVENIR    OF  RACHEL.  1 33 

Chance  having  brought  me  at  the  time  to  Toulon,  I 
immediately  hastened  to  Sardou's  romantic  villa  overhang- 
ing the  Mediterranean,  but  she  was  too  weak  for  me  to  be 
permitted  to  see  her.  Next  morning,  however,  she  sent 
me  a  note  expressing  her  warmest  thanks  for  my  visit.  It 
concluded  with  the  following  most  amiable  and  flattering 
but,  alas  !  expiring  words  : 

*  *  No  one  can  create  real  women  better  than  you.  Prom- 
ise to  write  me  a  play  to  celebrate  my  return  to  the  stage — '* 

In  three  days  she  was  dead. 

I  have  perhaps  allowed  myself  to  be  carried  away  too  far 
by  this  retrospect,  but  in  a  study  on  Diction  nothing  could 
be  more  natural  than  a  digression  on  the  memory  of  one  of 
the  most  illustrious  exponents  of  the  art.  Besides  it  con- 
ducts us  at  once  to  the  last  illustrious  name  on  our  list  and 
to  one  of  my  most  treasured  recollections  as  a  reader. 

13 


CHAPTER  IX. 

PONSARD. 

PONSARD  "  lay  on  his  death-bed.  The  previous  sum- 
mer, that  of  1866,  he  had  spent  in  his  native  province 
of  Isere,  expecting  amid  its  bracing  Alpine  breezes  to 
obtain  some  relief  from  the  fatal  disease  that  was  fast  sap- 
ping his  life  away.  But  these  holidays  he  had  not  devoted 
to  idleness.  He  had  written  a  Monologue  on  Galileo,  and 
sent  it  to  Paris,  with  the  request  that  it  should  be  read  at 
the  August  meeting  of  his  brother  Academicians.  The 
work  arrived  at  the  Institute  just  as  we  were  engaged  in  one 
of  our  private  sessions;  my  confreres  were  impatient  to 
know  what  it  was  like,  and  I  was  unanimously  requested 
to  read  it. 

I  had  never  seen  a  line  of  it  before,  and  everybody 
knows  what  a  difficult  matter  it  is  to  read  even  a  printed 
piece  of  poetry  at  first  sight.  A  triple  operation  of  a  very 
complicated  nature  has  to  be  performed  at  the  same  mo- 
ment ;  the  eyes,  the  understanding,  and  the  voice  have  to 
be  improvisers.  The  eyes  must  not  only  be  able  to  catch 
the  line  they  are  looking  at  but  actually  the  words  one  or 
two  lines  ahead ;  the  understanding  has.  to  divine  from  the 
very  beginning  the  total  scope  of  the  piece,  its  movement, 
its  general  character ;  while  the  voice  must  reproduce  in- 
stantly and  without  hesitation  the  sounds  exactly  corre- 
sponding with  the  words  as  fast  as  these  are  conveyed  by 
the  eyes  and  the  understanding. 

134 


PONSARD.  135 

The  task,  as  you  see,  is  no  easy  one.  It  requires  a 
rapidity  of  conception,  an  elasticity  of  voice,  and  an  in- 
tuitive perception  of  intimate  relation,  such  as  a  long  and 
careful  course  of  previous  preparation  can  alone  impart. 
Before  you  can  venture  on  the  first  of  Beethoven's 'e  sonatas 
at  which  the  book  may  open,  you  must  have  practised  your 
octaves  pretty  constantly.  Still,  strange  as  it  may  appear, 
it  has  happened  occasionally  that  the  reader,  spurred  into 
unwonted  activity  by  the  very  difficulty  of  the  task,  in- 
spired, as  it  were,  by  the  sudden  glimpses  of  beauties 
starting  up  successively  before  him,  and  therefore  really 
as  delightfully  surprised  as  his  hearers  themselves,  actually 
surpasses  himself  in  his  attempt  at  extempore  interpreta- 
tion ;  he  hits  on  accents,  audacities,  and  happy  successes 
which  the  best  prepared  reader  would  have  never  attempted 
to  aspire  after. 

But  I  hear  you  already  pleasantly  whispering  to  each 
other;  you  fancy  I  am  telling  my  own  story,  and  that  all 
this  dissertation  is  nothing  but  introductory  to  another 
of  my  grand  successes  as  a  reader.  Undeceive  yourselves 
at  once,  my  good  friends;  I  am  sorry  to  say  it;  I  read 
abominably.  My  confreres  began  to  compliment  me  as 
usual,  but  I  cut  them  short  at  once. 

"No  eulogiums ! "  cried  I.  "I  don't  deserve  them. 
But  I  know  my  mistake;  when  the  time  comes  for  the 
public  reading,  I  shall  read  well." 

What  was  the  mistake?  Was  it  altogether  my  own? 
Or  was  the  author  partly  in  fault  ?  I  alone  was  the  crim- 
inal. 

The  Monologue  contains  a  hundred  and  twenty  lines. 
It  commences  with  some  majesty  : 

Non,  les  temps  ne  sont plus,  oii  reine  solitaire ^  etc. 
(No,  those  clays  are  gone  forever !     Queen  Earth  no  longer  sits  in 


136  THE  ART  OF  READING. 

solitary  grandeur  on  her  immovable  throne.  No  longer  does  Apollo's 
blazing  chariot,  climbing  heaven's  azure  vault,  describe  the  magnifi^ 
cent  arch  that  spans  the  universe  from  east  to  west !  etc.) 

Like  a  simple  novice,  I  had  launched  out  in  full  force  on 
the  very  first  verses  ;  I  had  given  way  with  a  vengeance ; 
I  had  soared  upwards  like  a  balloon  when  the  ropes  are 
cut ;  like  a  frisky  colt  I  had  run  away  with  myself,  never 
once  imagining  when  or  how  I  was  to  pull  up.  At  the 
fortieth  line  I  began  to  puff  a  little ;  at  the  eightieth  I  was 
decidedly  out  of  breath;  and  when  I  had  come  to  the 
magnificent  peroration,  which  so  imperatively  demanded 
the  freest  and  fullest  display  of  all  my  powers,  alas !  I 
had  no  powers  left !  Instead  of  the  genuine  and  intense 
emotion  which  I  should  have  felt,  but  of  which  I  did  not 
feel  the  slightest  particle,  I  was  obliged  to  pawn  off  on 
my  hearers  a  factitious  heat,  a  wind-bag  emotion,  a  sham 
enthusiasm.  I  could  not  get  up  my  steam.  Coal  and 
water  had  been  already  exhausted. 

I  took  the  piece  with  me  into  the  country,  and,  plung- 
ing as  usual  into  the  depths  of  the  great  forest,  I  surren- 
dered myself  totally  to  its  serious  study. 

The  Monologue  is  simply  a  journey  through  infinite 
space.  It  has  four  flights.  The  first  is  confined  to  the 
Earth,  whom  Galileo  dethrones,  compelling  her  to  take  her 
proper  place  in  the  universe.  The  second  flight  compre- 
hends the  solar  system  and  all  those  stars  visible  to  the 
naked  eye.  The  third  takes  us  off  to  the  boundless 
dominions  of  the  nebulae.  The  fourth  describes  Galileo 
surveying  with  dazzled  eyes  the  illimitable  but  teeming 
abysms ;  and  the  whole  concludes  with  his  sublime  hymn 
of  adoration  to  the  great  CREATOR. 

The  reader's  course  would  seem  to  be  plain  enough.  He 
should  simply  imitate  the  poet,  and  reserve  his  most  vigor 


PONSARD.  \yji 

ous  efforts  for  the  conclusion.  But  how  arrive  at  this  con- 
clusion without  fatiguing  his  hearers  too  much  ?  Or  with- 
out, what  is  still  worse,  fatiguing  himself  too  much?  A 
Monologue  of  a*hundred  and  twenty  lyrical  verses  is  no 
joke  either  for  hearer  or  reader  !  What  good  is  emotion 
without  a  voice  to  convey  it  ?  No  matter  what  your  stock 
of  real  emotion  may  be,  the  instant  your  voice  betrays  weari- 
ness or  languor  adieu  to  your  proper  effect  on  the  audience  ! 

Cicero  says:  Nil  citius  arescit  quam  lacryma — nothing 
dries  up  quicker  than  a  tear.  But  I  beg  to  differ  with  him 
—  something  else  dries  up  just  as  fast — faster  —  admira- 
tion !  No  monotony  is  so  fatiguing,  so  straining,  as  the 
monotony  of  the  sublime. 

First  of  all  then,  it  was  perfectly  clear  that  I  should  try 
to  find  out  certain  bits  of  contrast,  of  repose,  of  opposition, 
of  light  and  shade;  at  every  available  moment  I  should 
dismount  from  my  chariot  of  Elias.  In  fact,  I  should  be 
in  no  hurry  at  all  to  get  into  it. 

Let  us  examine  the  piece  in  detail. 

The  first  twenty  verses,  though  of  a  decidedly  poetical 

cast,  are  really  little  more  than  the  expression  of  a  scientific 

truth. 

Notiy  les  temfs  ne  sont  plus,  etc. 

These,  therefore,  I  should  deliver  with  decision,  with 
conviction,  with  authority,  as  the  expression  of  unquestioned 
scientific  facts  beyond  all  cavil  or  dispute,  but  without  any 
undue  expenditure  of  lyrical  effusion. 

Next  comes  the  superb  apostrophe  to  the  Sun  and  to  all 
those  portions  of  starry  space  that  can  be  contemplated  by 
the  unaided  human  eye. 

Soleil!     Globe  de  feu  !     Gigantesque  fournaise,  etc. 
(Sun  !     Fiery  globe  !     Fountain  of  light  and  heat,  etc.) 

12* 


138  THE  ART  OF  READING. 

Here  it  was  clear  enough  that  I  should  not  be  afraid  to 
come  out  strong,  as  the  saying  is,  to  give  my  voice  its  full 
swing,  to  lift  it  up,  higher  and  still  higher,  until  it  should 
reach  the  nebulas ! 

Then  —  a  change  —  absolute  and  complete.  The  ineffa- 
bly mysterious  depths  of  the  infinite  are  now  to  be  rep- 
resented. And  to  represent  them  fitly  I  soon  found  out 
that  the  poet  had  limited  himself  to  terms  of  mysterious 
import,  to  words  of  oracular  and  shadowy  meaning,  to  tints 
of  clear-obscure  that  remind  us  of  Corot's'^  vaporous,  misty, 
semi-diaphanous  canvases. 

//  estfje  les  ai  vus^  des  nuages  laiieux, 

Des  gouttes,  etc. 
(Yes,  they  exist,  I  have  seen  them,  these  milky  mist-streaks,  these 
fight-dots,  of  ray  so  faint  that  a  glow-worm  twinkling  in  grassy  tuft 
sheds  light  enough  to  eclipse  them  all,  etc.) 

Here,  of  course,  I  was  to  endeavor  to  depict  by  modula- 
tion of  voice  what  the  poet  had  endeavored  to  depict,  by 
choice  of  words,  to  find  shades  in  harmony  with  these 
tints,  to  compose  music  for  these  verses !  This  pause  in 
the  semi-obscurity,  these  notes,  soft,  sweet,  soothing  as  a 
spirit  chorus,  had  the  double  advantage  of  reposing  me  a 
little,  and  preparing  the  way  with  greater  effect  for  the 
grand  lyrical  enthusiasm  of  the  conclusion. 

But  I  had  to  look  out  for  something  else  in  the  piece. 
I  should  depict  the  Man. 

Who  is  supposed  to  speak  these  verses?  Ponsard?  Not 
at  all.  Galileo.  These  verses  are  no  ode  on  the  great  dis- 
coveries  of  a  great  discoverer.  They  are  the  words  of  the 
great  discoverer  himself.  He  speaks  in  verse  certainly,  but 
he  tells  us  a  true  story,  his  own  work!  Him,  therefore,  I 
should  do  everything  to  bring  forward.     I  looked  carefully 


PONSARD.  139 

for  a  verse  which  would  be,  as  it  were,  a  portrait  of  Galileo; 
instead  of  one,  I  found  no  less  than  three. 

It  is  to  the  Beautiful  that  the  poets  direct  all  their  ef- 
forts, all  their  culture,  all  their  art.  But  for  the  scientists 
it  is  the  True  that  possesses  an  exclusive  fascination.  Ac- 
cordingly, when  not  far  from  the  beginning  I  came  on 

Jusqu!  au  regne  du  Vrai  la  science  nous  hausse^ 
(Science  lifts  us  into  the  kingdom  of  the  True,) 

and  when  a  few  lines  farther  on  I  met 

Science  !    Amour  du  Vrai  ! 
(Science  !     Love  of  the  True !) 

I  should  evidently  lay  such  decided  stress  on  the  word 
True  J  I  should  detach  it  from  the  others,  so  vividly  and 
distinctly,  I  should  pronounce  it  with  an  accent  so  strong 
and  expressive  that  the  hearers  could  not  help  noticing  that 
it  stood  out  in  the  greatest  possible  relief.  They  should  be 
made  to  understand  that  this  word  was  the  mainspring,  the 
very  essence  of  Galileo's  genius. 

But  that  is  not  all.  In  the  very  midst  of  a  passage 
actually  sparkling  with  enthusiasm  what  should  I  light 
upon  but  the  pur  si  muove !  Apocryphal  or  not,  this 
famous  phrase  should  be  made  to  tell  with  all  its  force. 

O  terre,  notre  mire,  d  peine  refroidie, 
Autour  de  toi,  se  meut,  etc. 

(O  Earth,  Mother  Earth,  scarcely  art  thou  cooled,  when  around  thee 
moves,  etc.) 

Here  it  is  clear  I  was  to  suddenly  drop  the  lyrical  tone 
50  as  to  be  able  to  concentrate  on  the  words  Autour  de 
toij  se  meut  (around  thee  moves')  all  the  energy  of  affirma- 
tion I  was  capable  of. 

It  would  be  only  after  a  judicious  use  of  all  these  diverse 
oppositions  of  tones  and  effects  that  I  could  arrive  at  the 


140  THE  ART  OF  READING. 

conclusion  with  every  power  of  mine  still  fresh  and  vig 
orous.  Then  I  could  surrender  myself  wholly  to  my  en- 
thusiasm, sweep  along  at  full  sail,  call  up  all  my  reserves, 
and  utter  with  triumphant  exultation  this  magnificent  cry : 

Allez,persicuteurs  !  lancez  vos  anathhnes  ! 

ye  suis  religieux  beaucoup  plus  que  vous  m^mes. 

Dieu,  que  vous  invoquez,  etc. 
(Go  on,  ye  persecutors !  Keep  launching  your  anathemas  against 
a  man  more  truly  religious  than  yourselves !  Better  than  you  do  I 
serve  the  great  God  whom  you  pretend  to  invoke.  In  your  eyes  this 
little  lump  of  mud  is  the  whole  universe.  Mine  can  find  the  illumi- 
nating splendor  of  the  Deity  come  to  an  end  nowhere  !  You  contract 
the  Divine  Majesty.  I  expand  it !  And,  like  the  kings  formerly 
chained  to  the  conqueror's  chariot,  whole  universes  do  I  lay  at  the 
feet  of  our  Mighty  CREATOR !) 

This  Study  cost  me  at  least  three  days'  hard  work.  What 
sustained  me  all  the  time  was  not  —  need  I  say  it  ?  —  the 
silly  expectation  of  making  my  reading  a  success.  No ! 
It  was  wholly  and  solely  the  ardent  desire  with  which  I 
burned  to  contribute  something,  however  small,  towards 
the  last  triumph  of  my  poor  friend  now  approaching  his 
last  hour,' something  which  might  give  him  a  little  pleasure 
before  he  left  us  forever. 

The  success  of  the  public  reading  of  the  piece  was  great 
—  to  deny  it  would  be  affectation.  I  wrote  all  about  it  to 
Ponsard.  I  told  him  the  story  of  my  study  and  how  I  had 
enjoyed  three  days  of  the  closest  intimacy  with  him  through 
his  fine  work.  I  detailed  all  I  had  looked  for  and  all  I 
had  discovered.  I  even  tried  to  reveal  to  the  poet  himself 
something  new  and  unexpected  in  his  poetry. 

His  reply  repaid  me  for  everything.  Never  in  my  life 
have  I  received  a  letter  so  full  of  joy,  emotion  and  surprise. 
"You  have  giyen  my  aches,"  he  said,  "at  least  one  day's 
respite." 


PONSARD.  141 

Have  I  been  wrong  in  telling  you  that  neither  the  grati- 
fications of  self-love  nor  even  the  charms  of  successful  in- 
tellectual effort  are  by  any  means  the  only  results  of  our 
noble  art  ?  Does  it  not  also  play  an  important  part  in  our 
dearest  and  most  intimate  sensibilities? 

And  this  is  exactly  the  reason  why  I  should  especially 
like  to  have  for  its  most  ardent  votaries  a  particular  class, 
but  a  most  important  class,  of  human  beings,  of  whom  I 
am  ashamed  to  say  I  have  as  yet  made  no  especial  mention 
—  the  women.  Our  art  suits  the  women  and  becomes  the 
women  even  more  particularly  than  the  men.  They  pos- 
sess from  nature  a  flexibility  of  organs  and  a  facility  of 
imitation  that  wonderfully  dispose  them  to  every  mode  of 
interpretation  and  most  particularly  to  the  art  of  reading. 
I  can  even  add  that  this  talent  —  to  the  men  an  instrument 
of  labor,  a  means  of  professional  success  —  may  be  culti- 
vated by  the  women  in  the  midst  of  their  pleasantest  house- 
hold avocations,  of  their  dearest  family  duties.  They  are 
daughters,  sisters,  mothers,  wives.  Many  a  one  of  them 
has  seen,  and  surely  will  see  without  ever  stirring  out  of 
her  own  door,  an  old  tottering  father,  a  poor  mourning 
mother,  a  weak,  sickly  child.  The  father  can't  read,  his 
eyes  are  too  weak.  The  mother  can't  read,  her  heart 
shudders  at  the  task.  The  ailing  child  would  like  dearly 
to  read,  but  he  is  unable.  What  a  sweet  pleasure  then  lies 
in  store  for  the  young  girl  who,  at  the  slight  expense  of  a 
few  well-read  pages,  can  cheer  up  the  troubled,  console  the 
bereaved,  and  amuse  the  suffering  or  the  restless ! 

In  the  name  then  of  the  dearest,  the  warmest,  the  no- 
blest sentiments  of  the  human  heart,  I  now  call  upon  the 
women  of  France,  and  earnestly  exclaim  : 

Learn  to  read  as  you  should  read !  Endeavor  to  acquire 
0  talent  that  can  be  so  easily  turned  into  a  virtue  I 


CHAPTER  X. 

THE  LAST  WORD. 

THIS  little  treatise  I  have  dedicated  to  the  Students  of 
the  Higher  Normal  School^.  I  must  take  the  liberty 
of  recommending  it  also  to  every  member  of  the  Primary 
Schools,  pupils,  teachers,  and  all. 

Especially  intended  for  the  perusal  of  a  select  few,  the 
elite  of  the  students  of  the  University^'  of  France,  can  our  , 
modest  pamphlet  prove  of  any  advantage  to  the  less  pre- 
tentious requirements  of  primary  education? 

This  question  the  reader  must  decide  for  himself.  The 
few  words  I  am  going  to  add  may  help  him  in  forming  a 
just  decision. 

A  day  or  two  ago,  at  the  request  of  the  Inspector-Gen- 
eral of  Girls'  Schools,  I  visited,  in  a  quarter  of  Paris  which 
can  be  no  longer  called  a  poor  quarter,  a  model  primary 
school  and  a  model  normal  school.  I  was  requested  to 
listen  first  to  the  reading  of  the  children,  and  then  to  that 
of  the  young  ladies  who  were  preparing  to  qualify  them- 
selves for  teaching. 

With  regard  to  the  children,  two  faults  struck  me  in  par- 
ticular. Their  voices  were  very  weak;  of  punctuation 
they  exhibited  a  woeful  and  total  ignorance.  They  read 
as  if  their  vocal  chords  had  no  more  variety  than  a  tin 
whistle ;  they  kept  on  reading  as  if  there  was  not  a  single 
period  or  comma  from  one  end  of  the  book  to  the  other. 

What   is   the  cause   of  the   first  defect  ?     A  congenital 

142 


THE  LAST  WORD.  I43 

weakness  of  the  organ  ?  Not  at  all.  When,  instead  of 
reading,  I  asked  them  to  speak,  their  voices  sounded  clear, 
melodious,  rich  in  intonation.  Is  it  timidity?  Well  — 
yes — partly  timidity — but  a  timidity  that  has  its  very  es 
sence  and  foundation  in  ignorance,  in  want  of  experience, 
in  vicious  methods.  Of  the  proper  management  of  their 
voices  they  know  actually  nothing. 

Among  the  young  ladies,  the  future  teachers  of  our 
country,  I  certainly  discovered  and  appreciated  some  origi- 
nal qualities  of  correct  and  even  of  elegant  diction,  but 
of  the  mechanical  part,  the  technical  part,  of  the  art  of 
reading  they  seemed  to  me  to  have  very  little  general  con 
ception.  Their  teacher  is  certainly  an  able  man,  but  it 
seems  he  is  not  allowed  half  time  enough  to  do  justice 
either  to  his  pupils  or  himself. 

Is  it  a  matter  of  slight  importance  to  allow  the  pupils 
and  teachers  of  our  primary  schools  to  continue  in  this 
ignorance  ? 

Let  the  reader  again  judge  for  himself. 

The  lady  at  the  head  of  the  Girls'  Normal  School  assured 
me  that,  for  every  twenty  sent  out  of  her  hands  every  year 
to  take  charge  of  primary  schools,  two  and  sometimes 
even  three  were  regularly  obliged  to  stop  work,  suffering 
so  much  from  affections  of  the  throat  that  they  were  often 
obliged  to  give  up  the  business  of  teaching  forever. 

To  no  one,  therefore,  more  than  the  teacher  himself, 
and  particularly  the  female  teacher,  is  the  art  of  reading 
indispensable.  By  learning  to  read,  they  learn  at  the 
same  time  to  take  breath,  to  punctuate  properly,  and  tc 
be  able  to  stick  to  their  work  without  over-fatiguing  them- 
selves. Exercising  the  voice  properly  is  the  most  healthy 
of  all  gymnastic  exercises !  To  strengthen  the  voice  is 
to  impart  strength  to  the  whole  organization.     Strengthen 


144  "THE  ART  OF  READING, 

your  voice,  and  you  develop  not  only  your  vocal  capaci- 
ties but  also  the  whole  force  and  powers  of  the  lungs  and 
larynx. 

Here  is  a  proof. 

In  1846  M,  Fortoul82  was  appointed  to  an  important 
position  in  the  Faculty  of  Aix  University.  He  hesitated 
about  accepting;  his  weak  throat  made  him  look  with 
some  dread  on  the  duties  of  a  teacher.  "Accept  by  all 
means,"  said  his  physician;  '*the  habitual  exercise  of 
your  vocal  organs  in  a  public  hall  will  strengthen  them ; 
only  you  must  first  learn  how  to  speak."  He  did  accept; 
he  did  learn  how  to  speak ;  he  spoke ;  he  succeeded  ;  and 
at  the  end  of  the  year  he  found  he  had  made  four  thousand 
francs  by  simply  undertaking  to  cure  himself  of  his  sore 
throat. 

What  is  true  for  the  mechanical  part  of  reading  is  equally 
true  for  the  intellectual  part.  Oh,  what  a  new  and  power- 
ful lever  of  action  the  teacher  would  possess  over  the 
plainer  portion  of  our  people,  particularly  in  the  rural 
districts,  if  he  could  only  initiate  them,  b/  means  of 
pleasant  and  instructive  readings,  little  by  little,  into  a 
knowledge,  however  imperfect,  of  some  of  the  grander 
pieces  of  our  literature  !  Is  not  a  lesson  on  French  genius 
a  lesson  also  on  French  history  ?  Is  it  not  our  duty  to  re- 
double, to  strengthen,  and  to  rivet  fast  every  tie  that  can 
attach  our  people  to  the  intellectual  glories  of  our  country? 
Have  not  the  humble  classes  too  an  imagination,  an  intel- 
lect, a  heart  ? 

Even  confining  ourselves  altogether  to  elementary  public 
instruction,  what  a  powerful  aid  reading  affords  towards  the 
development  and  expansion  of  the  pupil's  intelligence  ! 
The  ^^reat  and  indispensable  instrument  in  the  workshop 
of  education  is  memory.     How  he  can  make  the  best  possi- 


THE   LAST   WORD.  145 

ble  use  of  this  important  instrument,  the  child  will  be  best 
taught  by  being  made  to  read  aloud  frequently  but  always 
intelligently.  Instead  of  forcing  words  into  his  brain  with 
a  pile-driver  as  it  were,  and  trying  to  keep  them  there  by 
everlasting,  monotonous,  and  mechanical  repetitions,  sup- 
pose we  try  to  make  him  imbibe  them  quietly  and  pleas- 
antly by  at  once  calling  into  play  both  his  reason  and  his 
sentiment !  Suppose  we  could  succeed  in  making  his  in- 
telligence understand,  while  his  taste  at  the  same  time  rel- 
ished, the  beauties  of  some  literary  masterpiece.  Would  he 
not  both  learn  quicker  and  retain  longer?  Nothing  is  more 
conducive  in  enabling  us  to  learn  by  heart  than  compre- 
hension united  with  admiration. 

In  the  name  then  of  a  sound  condition  of  mind  and  body, 
and  in  the  confident  hope  of  obtaining  both  for  France,  I 
call  on  our  people  to  imitate  the  people  of  the  United  States 
of  North  America  by  making  the  art  of  reading  aloud  the 
very  corner-stone  of  public  education.  I  demand,  feebly 
I  am  afraid,  but  perseveringly  I  am  determined,  for  our 
children's  instruction  : 

1 .  A  Complete  Course  of  Reading  for  our  Normal  Schools. 

2.  A  set  of  Prizes  for  Reading  in  our  Primary  Schools. 
Real  progress  in  education  is  possible  only  when  it  com- 
mences with  childhood  and  with  the  people. 

In  a  democratic  state,  such  as  ours,  where  every- 
thing  IS   done  at  the   common   expense,  everything 

SHOULD  BE  done  FOR  THE  COMMON  ADVANTAGE. 

13  K 


A   SUPPLEMENTARY   CHAPTER. 

(From  a  smaller  work  of  our  Author's  that  has  just  appeared  in 
Paris  we  make  the  following  extracts.  Their  practical  nature  recom- 
mends them  to  our  attention.) 

TAKE  any  educational  establishment  you  please  in  all 
France,  and  what  will  you  find  it  has  done  for  reading 
aloud  ?  Is  there  a  course  of  reading,  a  class  for  reading, 
a  prize  for  reading  in  any  of  the  primary  schools  ?  No. 
In  any  of  the  primary  normal  schools?  No.  In  any  of 
the  industrial  or  commercial  schools  ?  No.  In  any  of  the 
colleges?  No.  Neither  masters  nor  pupils  ever  learn  to 
read. 

Leave  the  schools  and  go  into  society;  take  the  liberal 
professions  one  by  one ;  who  learns  to  read  ?  The  law- 
yers? No.  The  magistrates  ?  No.  The  notaries,  the  pub- 
lic officers,  the  members  of  the  learned  societies?  Not  a 
single  one  of  them.  We  have  masters  for  everything  else ; 
for  our  organs,  our  limbs,  our  exercises,  our  amusements. 
We  are  taught  how  to  dance,  to  swim,  to  box,  to  jump,  to 
run,  to  fence,  to  shoot ;  but  the  very  organ  which  we  are 
using  every  moment  and  in  every  circumstance  of  life,  the 
very  instrument  that  of  all  instruments  is  most  effectual  in 
promoting  cordial  intercourse  with  our  fellow-beings,  this 
indispensable  utensil,  the  most  distinctive  attribute  of  the 
human  race,  has  no  especial  teacher  among  us,  receives 
nowhere  careful  especial  instruction  ! 

Whence  comes  this  singular  anomaly?     From  three  mis- 

146 


SUPPLEMENTARY.  I47 

takes.  The  study  of  reading  aloud  has  been  neglected  or 
rejected  in  our  system  of  public  education:  i.  Because 
people  think  there  is  no  use  in  it.  2.  Because  people 
think  there  is  neither  time  nor  room  for  it.  3.  Because, 
like  poetry  and  music,  people  think  it  can't  be  taught  un- 
less you  have  a  great  natural  talent  for  it.  Now  let  us 
examine  these  three  objections,  as  far  at  least  as  they  con- 
cern our  primary  schools. 

UTILITY. 

Some  people  of  what  is  erroneously  called  a  practical 
mind  solemnly  assure  us : 

**  Everything  connected  with  primary  instruction  must 
be  of  a  serious  and  above  all  of  a  useful  character.  The 
art  of  reading  may  no  doubt  form  a  desirable  extra  for  the 
richer  classes ;  it  may  form  elegant  society-talkers  and  help 
considerably  in  improving  amateur  theatricals;  but  on 
what  grounds  can  you  possibly  introduce  reading  as  an 
art  into  the  severe  and  sober  programme  of  our  primary 
schools?  This  programme  includes  nothing  but  the  solid- 
ities, grammar,  geography,  arithmetic,  history.  In  such 
earnest  and  austere  company  what  business  has  this  art, 
amusing,  graceful,  even  elegant  if  you  will,  but  just  as 
frivolous  and  distracting  as  dancing?  Of  what  possible 
advantage  would  the  art  of  reading  be  to  the  sons  and 
daughters  of  our  laborers,  our  artisans,  and  our  working- 
classes  in  general  ?  Of  what  benefit  would  it  be  even  to 
their  teachers  ?  " 

Of  what  advantage  ?  Of  what  benefit  ?  It  would  en- 
able both  the  pupils  and  the  teachers  how  to  do  their  duty 
better. 

The  art  of  Reading  is,  certainly,  an  ornamental  art,  an 
enjoyable  art,  but  it  is  also  an  eminently  useful  art.     It 


148  THE  ART  OF  READING. 

may,  certainly,  maintain  a  very  high  position  in  what  is 
called  an  elegant  and  polished  education,  but  it  should 
maintain  in  popular  education,  if  not  the  same  rank,  at 
least  the  same  claim  on  our  attention  as  geography  or 
grammar.  Reading  well  should  not  be  the  privilege  of  a 
few ;  it  is  a  necessity  for  all.  To  prove  the  proposition,  if 
proof  is  necessary,  let  us  take  a  few  simple  facts. 

The  duties  of  a  primary  teacher  are  chiefly  confined  to 
giving  explanations,  reading  detached  passages,  correcting 
exercises  by  word  of  mouth.  Now,  how  does  he  explain, 
read,  or  correct  ?  By  his  voice.  Is  it  not  evidently  to  the 
pupils'  advantage  that  the  voice  should  be  clear  and  strong  ? 
Do  not  oral  explanations  or  extracts  from  authors  always 
make  a  stronger  impression  on  the  children  when  the  pro- 
nunciation is  precise  and  when  the  delivery  corresponds 
with  the  words  ?  Of  course  they  do,  for  the  words  are  not 
everything  in  a  sentence ;  the  music  of  the  words  and  the 
accent  of  the  words  have  their  value  too ;  they  are  to 
speech  what  the  feathers  are  to  the  arrow;  they  carry  it 
farther  and  direct  it  straighter  to  the  mark. 

This  is  not  all.  School-time  begins  at  eight  and  ends 
at  four ;  deduct  recess,  and  we  have  seven  hours  a  day  for 
hard  solid  work.  During  these  seven  hours  a  day  what  is 
the  teacher  doing  ?  Speaking.  These  seven  hours  a  day 
continue  for  ten  months  in  the  twelve;  and  this  often 
lasts  for  ten  years,  twenty  years,  thirty  years  !  What  a 
wearing  occupation  !  What  an  exhausting  profession  !  For 
the  teacher,  therefore,  an  interest  also  of  the  first  order 
exists,  the  interest  of  his  health,  the  interest  of  his  life 
probably,  in  knowing  how  to  make  proper  use  of  the  only 
and  the  very  frail  service-instrument  he  is  provided  with, 
in  being  enabled  to  protect  it,  to  spare  it,  to  render  it 
capable  of  enduring  such  long -and  laborious  employment. 


SUPPLEMENTAL  Y.  1 49 

One  of  the  very  first  fruits  to  be  derived  from  the  study 
of  the  art  of  Reading  is  to  learn  how  to  read  and  speak 
without  fatigue. 

As  for  the  pupils,  a  single  word  will  be  enough. 

What  is  their  principal  work?  Learning  their  lessons  and 
reciting  them.  What  should  be  their  chief  aim  ?  To  learn 
these  lessons  as  soon  as  possible,  to  recite  them  as  correctly 
as  possible,  and  to  retain  them  as  long  as  possible. 

Now,  that  the  art  of  Reading  conducts  precisely  to  these 
three  results,  is  what  I  expect  to  show  by  my  answer  to  the 
second  objection. 

TOO  MUCH  TO  DO. 

One  of  the  strongest  objections  against  our  present  sys- 
tem of  public  instruction,  undoubtedly,  is  that  it  under- 
takes too  much.  The  children  are  absolutely  crushed 
under  the  mass  of  detail.  The  class-rooms  are  too  small 
for  the  classes ;  the  hours  are  too  short  for  the  lessons. 
Teachers  and  taught  want  time  alike.  How  then  can  we 
think  of  introducing  a  new  branch  ?  Where  is  the  room 
for  it  ?  What  shall  we  drop  from  the  programme  so  as  to 
make  way  for  it? 

The  answer  is  easy. 

I  would  introduce  the  Art  of  Reading  as  a  useful  art  only 
on  condition  that  it  shall  crowd  nothing  else,  that  it  shall 
disturb  nothing  elsfe,  that  it  shall  replace  nothing  else ;  but 
that  it  shall  have  something  to  do  with  everything  so  as  to 
be  able  to  serve  as  an  assistant  to  everything.  It  will  be  no 
overburden  to  the  memory,  it  will  be  only  an  aid;  it  will 
be  no  new  demand  on  the  intelligence,  it  will  be  rather  a 
relief  and  an  alleviation  of  mental  toil.  It  will  play  the 
same  part  in  instruction  that  the  adjuvants  do  in  nutrition  j 
it  will  stimulate  and  facilitate  assimilation  ;  it  will  not  be  a 
13* 


150  THE  ART  OF  READING. 

new  article  of  food,  it  will  be  the  salt,  the  spice,  and  Ihs 
appetizing  clement  of  the  other  dishes. 

What  I  mean,  two  examples  will  make  perfectly  clear. 

When  he  has  a  lesson  to  learn,  what  is  done  by  the  av- 
erage pupil  ?  Does  he  not  begin  to  mumble,  in  a  low  or 
loud  voice  as  the  case  may  be,  repeating  each  word  per- 
haps twenty  times,  mechanically,  by  machinery,  tagging 
line  to  line,  until  at  last  he  has  got  the  whole  page  into 
his  brain  the  Lord  knows  how,  to  remain  there  the  Lord 
knows  how  long.  Now  bring  before  me  the  very  best 
pupil  in  the  primary  schools,  and  I  will  cheerfully  lay  a 
wager  with  him,  which  I  am  honest  enough,  however,  to 
tell  him  I  have  often  won.  His  memory  is  fresh,  keen, 
sensitive,  vigorous ;  mine,  on  the  contrary,  is  old,  wearing 
out,  dull.  No  matter  for  that !  Let  him  select  any  page 
he  likes,  and  I  am  willing  to  bet  that  I  shall  know  it  by 
heart  twice  as  soon  as  he  does !  Why  shall  I  be  thus  able 
to  beat  him  at  his  own  game  ?  Because  I  shall  know  how 
to  strengthen  my  memory  by  availing  myself  of  my  knowl- 
edge of  the  art  of  reading.  That  is,  I  shall  learn  the  page 
by  reading  it  correctly,  methodically,  intelligently,  by  ob- 
serving the  laws  of  punctuation,  by  strictly  following  the 
movement  of  the  thought.  Read  in  this  manner,  every 
word  in  the  sentence  will  print  itself  more  strongly  in  my 
memory  because  it  will  engrave  itself  more  clearly  on  my 
intelligence.  Learning  to  read  is,  therefore,  learning  how 
to  learn;  consequently  it  is  not  time  lost;  it  is  time 
gained. 

Now  let  us  take  recitations  in  class.  What  inspector 
does  not  complain  of  the  well-known  sing-song,  nasal, 
monotonous,  and  always  false  music,  with  which  the  average 
pupil  recites  an  answer  even  no  more  than  four  or  five  lines 
long?     Does  it  not  hurt  our  ears  as  well  as  shock  our  coin- 


SUPPLE MENTAR  Y.       .  1 5  I 

mon  sense?  Does  it  not  impart  a  momentary  air  of  imbe- 
cility to  a  countenance  otherwise  bright  and  intelligent? 
The  instant  he  stands  up  to  give  sea  answer,  the  boy  as- 
sumes a  stupid  look ;  he  does  not  seem  to  know  what  he  is 
saying;  in  fact  he  understands  worse  because  he  recites 
badly,  and  he  would  evidently  understand  better  if  he  re- 
cited well.  But  if  he  understood  better,  would  not  he  re- 
member longer?  This  is  self-evident.  Faithfulness  of 
recollection  depends  quite  as  much  on  the  intelligence  as 
on  the  memory;  the  memory  receives  the  impression  and 
retains  it,  but  the  intelligence  engraves  it.  Learning  to 
read,  therefore,  is  learning  to  retain,  because  it  is  learning 
to  understand.  Once  more,  then,  learning  to  read  is  time 
gained,  and  not' time  lost. 

The  question  is  now  evidently  quite  simplified,  and  the 
llifficulty  resolved. 

No  new  programme,  no  new  teachers  are  required  for  the 
new  branch.  The  regular  teachers  can  teach  it  while  at- 
Tending  to  their  ordinary  duties. 

The  only  important  point  to  be  taken  into  consideration 
is  that  the  teachers  themselves  should  understand  it,  and 
that  Reading  should  be  insisted  upon  as  an  obligatory  study 
in  the  primary  normal  schools.  Once  the  teachers  have 
fully  imbibed,  steeped  themselves  in,  the  principles  of  our 
art,  give  yourself  no  further  trouble ;  their  ears  will  do  the 
rest.  Their  ears  w«uld  be  so  shocked,  so  hurt,  so  offended 
by  the  lingual  defects  of  their  pupils  that  they  would  correct 
them  thoroughly,  even  if  instigated  by  no  loftier  motive 
than  mere  self-love.  Nothing  is  so  successful  in  kindling 
our  enthusiasm  against  evils  as  finding  these  evils  to  be  per- 
sonally offensive. 

Now  to  resume. 

Reading  should  bear  on  everything.     Making  the  pupils 


152  .THE   ART  OF  READING. 

read,  however  well,  a  detached  passage  or  two  is  of  very 
little  use.  They  should  never  be  allowed  to  recite  a  page, 
give  an  explanation,*  make  an  answer,  read  an  exercise 
even,  without  being  compelled,  imperatively,  inexorably 
compelled  to  observe  the  fundamental  rules  of  the  art  of 
reading. 

I  care  very  little  for  set  recitations.  I  could  never  see 
much  good  in  those  prepared  displays,  made  on  Distribu- 
tion Days,  when  the  children,  mounted  on  a  platform  and 
dressed  in  all  their  finery,  recite  before  an  audience  of 
their  parents  and  friends,  with  gestures  prepared  before- 
hand, accents  prepared  beforehand,  and  countenances 
prepared  beforehand,  some  fable,  or  story,  or  dialogue 
suitable  to  the  occasion.  Perhaps  if  everything  had  been 
only  7vell  prepared  beforehand,  I  might  not  consider  such 
exercises  as  quite  useless,  but,  generally  speaking,  the  poor 
children  remind  me  of  the  Dutch  Dolls  that,  when  you 
squeeze  them  hard,  squeak  out  mamma  and  papa;  you 
think  you  hear  so  many  phonographs ;  they  are  not  human 
beings  at  all,  they  are  so  many  automatons  warranted  to 
go  as  long  as  they  are  wound  up.  It  is  painful  to  see 
childhood  thus  lose  its  charm, —  I  might  say  its  dignity. 
The  worst  thing  we  can  make  out  of  a  child  is  a  poll- 
parrot. 

Nor  should  we  go  to  the  other  extreme.  I  am  just  as 
opposed  to  turning  him  into  a  play-actcfr. 

Our  present  mode  of  teaching  Drawing  explains  pretty 
well  what  I  mean. 

The  day  is  fortunately  gone  forever  when  heads  of 
Romulus  or  Alexander  the  Great,  beautifully  indian- 
inked,  beautifully  stumped,  or  beautifully  cross-hatched 
with  lines  all  perfectly  even  and  parallel,  were  hung  on 
the  walls  in  beautiful  frames,  and  fondly  gazed  upon  by 


SUPPLEMENTAR  Y.  1 5  3 

innocent  parents  as  veritable  specimens  of  their  chil- 
dren's artistic  ability !  Ability  !  So  far  from  being  able 
to  draw  a  head  of  Romulus ,  the  poor  creatures  could  not 
make  a  decent  offer  at  drawing  an  ink-bottle  !  Such 
puerile  nonsense  is  now  dropped  forever.  Drawing  to- 
day is  taught  more  seriously  and  more  sensibly. 

So  it  should  be  with  Reading. 

Simple  stories,  plain  passages,  acts  and  thoughts  within 
easy  range  of  the  children's  comprehension  —  such  should 
be  the  rough  materials  of  their  exercise.  They  must  be 
taught  to  walk,  before  they  undertake  to  dance.  Let  them 
read  nothing  which  they  do  not  fully  feel  or  understand. 
Prose  rather  than  poetry.  In  order  to  read  verses  well, 
rather  brilliant  and  unusual  qualities  are  required.  Begin- 
ning with  poetry  would  be  like  putting  rhetoric  before 
grammar.  Let  us  begin  at  the  beginning  by  teaching 
them  correctness,  clearness,  naturalness,  and  above  all 
punctuation.  The  art  of  punctuating  as  we  read,  as  we 
have  already  observed,  is  half  the  art  of  Reading;  for  prop- 
erly punctuating  not  only  renders  us  clear  but  gives  us  rest 
and  breathing-time.  Commas  and  semicolons  judiciously 
interspersed  through  a  long  sentence  are  like  convenient 
landings  on  a  steep  stairway:  they  lighten  the  journey 
when  we  go  up,  and  diminish  the  dariger  when  we  come 
down. 

The  third  and  last  objection  to  the  introduction  of  the 
Art  of  Reading  into  our  primary  schools,  is  the  alleged  im- 
possibility of  teaching  it.  Like  music  or  painting;  people 
say,  it  must  be  born  in  us  \  otherwise  teaching  the  Art  of 
Reading  would  be  so  much  time  lost. 

But  for  such  an  objection,  the  reader  who  has  done  me 
the  favor  of  reading  this  little  work  will  readily  find  a  suit- 
able answer.     By  this  time  I  feel  pretty  certain  that  he 


154  THE  ART  OF  READING. 

is  quite  convinced  that  the  Art  of  Reading  well  is  an  art 
within  the  compass  of  any  one  who  can  read  at  all. 

A  few  concluding  words. 

I  have  shown,  I  think,  that  pupils  as  pupils  and  masters 
as  masters  will  find  a  powerful  auxiliary  in  the  Art  of  Read- 
ing. But  pupils  will  not  be  always  pupils ;  masters  are 
nearly  always  something  else  besides  masters ;  our  art  will 
be  beneficial,  however  they  may  be  circumstanced,  out  of 
school  as  well  as  at  school,  not  only  during  their  school- 
time  but  forever  after. 

Sixty  years  ago,  a  faculty  for  public  speaking  was  a 
rarity  in  France;  oratory,  a  signal  exception.  To-day 
the  voice  has  become  the  great  agent,  the  most  powerful 
medium,  in  all  our  social  relations. 

To-day  we  must  all  learn  to  read  and  to  speak,  because 
we  are  all  continually  liable  to  be  called  on  to  speak  or  to 
read.  The  incessant  commotion  of  modern  life  is  multi- 
plying public  assemblies  so  rapidly  that  there  is  no  end  to 
our  discourses,  harangues,  or  readings.  Meetings,  recep- 
tions, committees,  assemblies  electoral,  industrial,  com- 
mercial, reunions  literary,  learned,  scientific,  etc.,  are  so 
many  new  forms  of  public  life  so  continually  and  univer- 
sally springing  up  that  almost  at  any  moment  the  humblest 
citizen  may  be  compelled  to  play  the  part  of  reader  or 
speaker.  When  the  pupils  leave  school  will  they  not  have 
their  trades-meetings  to  attend  to  as  artisans,  their  agricul- 
tural meetings  to  attend  to  as  farmers,  their  beneficial  so- 
ciety meetings  to  attend  to  as  workmen,  their  ward  meet- 
ings to  attend  to  as  voters?  Here  will  they  not  often  be 
obliged  to  read  aloud  some  report,  some  proposal,  some 
return,  some  description  of  the  situation  of  affairs?  If 
they  read  badly,  will  they  not  expose  themselves  to  be 
badly  heard,  badly  understood,  and,  still  more  likely,  to 


SUPPLE  MENTA  RY.  1 5  5 

be  the  objects  of  merciless  ridicule  ?  If  they  read  well, 
will  not  their  discourses  be  more  clear,  more  convincing, 
and  will  not  their  reputation  for  intelligence  and  ability 
gain  in  proportion? 

The  anwers  to  these  questions  need  not  be  given.  It  is 
too  evident  to  any  thinking  man  that  the  ideas  we  acquire 
regarding  good- reading  at  school  we  shall  not  lose  in  our 
after  life ;  that  when  full-grown  men,  we  can  turn  to  good 
account  what  we  have  learned  as  boys;  and  that  even  a 
little  ability  as  readers  will  enable  us  not  only  to  perform 
ooir  ordinary  duties,  but  also  those  of  a  good  citizen,  in  a 
manner  more  satisfactory  towards  ourselves  and  decidedly 
more  advantageous  towards  others. 


PROPERiy  OF 
DEPil,'!Tf.;[[:i  OF  DRAHATIC  ART 


NOTES 


A  SHORT  SKETCH  OF  ERNEST  LEGOUVfi, 

MEMBER   OF   THE   FRENCH    ACADEMY. 

Gabriel  J.  B.  Ernest  W.  Legouve,  son  of  J.  B,  Legouve, 
author  oi Le  Merite  des  femmes,  La  Mori  d' Henri  Quatre,  etc., 
was  born  at  Paris,  Feb.  15,  1807,  in  the  same  house,  No.  14 
Rue  St.  Marc,  where  he  still  lives  with  his  grandchildren.  His 
first  literary  attempt,  a  poem  on  The  Discovery  of  Printing,  ob- 
tained the  prize  for  excellence  offered  by  the  French  Academy 
in  1827,  but  another  poem  Old  Men  (1834)  and  two  novels,  Max 
(1833)  and  Edith  of  Falsen,  though  possessing  much  merit, 
failed  to  attract  general  attention. 

In  1857,  he  delivered  in  the  College  of  France  a  highly  suc- 
cessful course  of  lectures  on  the  Moral  History  of  Wo?nen. 
Another  course  of  lectures  on  Parents  and  Child?'en  in  the 
Nineteenth  Ce7itury  has  been  republished  and  is  at  present  one 
of  the  most  popular  books  in  France. 

But  it  is  to  his  dramatic  works  that  he  is  indebted  for  a  seat 
in  the  French  Academy  (1856),  where  he  succeeded  Ancelot, 
author  of  the  famous  tragedy  of  Louis  IX. 

His  principal  dramas  are  :  Louise  de  Lignerolles,  a  prose 
piece,  in  five  acts,  which  furnished  Mademoiselle  Mars  *with 
her  last  and  one  of  her  finest  creations,  and  still  occupies  a 
prominent  position  in  the  repertory  of  the  Theatre- Fran^ais.  In 
collaboration  with  Eugene  Scribe,  he  composed  three  famous 
works,  Adricnne  Lecouvreur,  The  Ladies'  Battle,  and  The 
Queen  of  Navarre's  Stories,  all  acted  at  the  Theatre- Frangais 


158  NOTES. 

with  immense  success.  Adriemie  in  particular  had  an  extraor« 
dinary  run,  owing  to  Rachel's  wonderful  personation  of  the 
title  role.  To  another  production  of  our  author's,  Medea,  writ- 
ten expressly  for  her,  the  illustrious  tragedienne  took  such  an 
unconquerable  dislike  that,  in  spite  of  a  lawsuit  decided  against 
her,  she  could  never  be  induced  to  play  it.  The  pretty  heavy 
damages  which  she  was  compelled  to  pay  in  punishment  for 
her  obstinacy,  M.  Legouve  made  over  to  two  beneficial  socie- 
ties established  for  the  relief  of  distressed  dramatic  authors  and 
literary  men  in  general.  Medea,  translated  into  Italian  by 
Montanelli,  has  been  played  by  Madame  Ristori,  as  is  well 
known,  all  over  Europe  and  America  with  the  most  decided 
success. 

Among  his  other  most  remarkable  dramas  are  :  By  Right  of 
Conquest,  Fairy  Fingers,  Beatrice  or  the  Madonna  of  Art  (written 
to  give  Madame  Ristori  an  opportunity  of  appearing  in  French 
drama),  Miss  Suzantte,  and  in  a  lighter  vein.  The  Young  Man 
that  does  nothing,  A  Game  that  two  can  play  at,  etc. 

All  these  pieces  are  full  of  sprightliness,  wit,  movement,  and 
a  close  observation  of  men  and  manners ;  the  language  is  always 
refined  and  elegant ;  and  the  style,  though  without  pretending 
to  Academic  severity,  is  remarkably  pure,  clear  and  forcible. 

In  the  Franco-Prussian  war,  Legouve,  though  sixty-three 
years  of  age,  refused  to  quit  Paris.  On  the  gloomiest  days  of 
that  terrible  period,  he  was  to  be  found  lecturing  to  well-filled 
halls  in  the  College  of  France,  on  the  necessity  of  moral  as  well 
as  physical  tiourishment  during  the  siege. 

Note  I  — LEGOUVE  — page  10. 

Jean  Baptiste  Legouve  (1764-1812),  dramatic  author,  ex- 
cellent poet,  member  of  the  French  Academy  in  1793  and  at  its 
reorganization  in  1803,  was  for  several  years,  during  Delille's 
absence,  professor  of  Latin  Poetry  in  the  College  of  France. 
His  poems,  though  somewhat  lacking  in  fire,  were  remarkable 
for  elegance  of  language,  richness  of  illustration,  and  exquisite 
delicacy  of  sentiment.  His  Merite  des  Fejmnes  (Women's  Merit) 
is  still  highly  esteemed. 


DUCHESNOIS,  159 

Note  2  —  DUCHESNOIS  —  page  10. 

Josephine  Rafin  (1777-1835),  better  known  by  her  assumed 
name  Mademoiselle  Uuchcsnois,  famous  tragic  actress,  for  thirty 
years  one  of  the  glories  of  the  Theatre- Frangais ,  in  spite  of  the 
homeliness  of  her  features  and  the  beauty  of  her  great  rival 
Mademoiselle  Georges,  owed  almost  everything  to  nature  and 
her  own  determination,  very  little  to  education  or  fortune.  She 
played  with  such  exquisite  sensibility  as  to  be  surnamed  the 
daughter  of  Racine.  Her  first  and  last  part  in  the  Frani^ais 
was  Phedra,  but  those  in  which  she  was  most  admired  were 
Joan  of  Arc  in  Avrigny's  tragedy,  and  Maty  Stuart  in  Lebrun's. 
With  Mademoiselle  Duchesnois  and  Talma  French  classic 
drama  came  to  an  end,  until  it  was  revived  by  Rachel. 

Notes  — RACINE  — page  ii. 

Jean  Racine  (1639-1699),  if  not  exactly  the  Euripides  of 
French  tragedy  as  Corneille  has  been  called  its  Sophocles,  is 
certainly  the  most  perfect,  the  most  charming  and  the  most 
highly  finished  of  all  the  French  tragic  poets.  His  style  has 
never  been  equalled  for  lucidity,  strength  and  sweetness.  No 
poet  has  ever  surpassed  him  in  delineating  the  delicate,  undy- 
ing and  unselfish  qualities  of  woman's  love.  His  heroines  will 
perhaps  remain  forever  as  the  finest  and  truest  types  (Shake- 
speare's not  excepted)  of  the  tender,  the  exquisitely  pathetic, 
and  the  uncalculating  element  of  feminine  nature.  In  alluding 
to  Shakespeare  we  make  every  allowance  for  the  vastness  and 
sublimity  of  his  genius,  but  we  must  remember  that  he  was  not 
cramped,  confined  and  tied  down  like  Racine ;  that  the  French 
poet  wrote,  not  for  the  indiscriminate  audience  of  a  London 
theatre  where  rabble  was  as  plentiful  as  nobility,  but  exclusively 
for  the  most  elegant,  fastidious,  and  critical  court  that  ever  ex- 
isted ;  that  from  first  to  last  in  all  his  dramas  a  certain  difficult 
and  monotonous  rhymed  version  was  rigidly  insisted  on  ;  that 
humor  was  wholly  excluded,  and  that  the  unities  of  time,  action 
and  place,  were  to  be  observed  as  closely  as  possible.  Com- 
paring all  this  with  the  frecdcftn,  the   license,  the  boundlesp 


l6o  NOTES. 

resources  freely  permitted  to  the  English  poet,  and  reflecting  a 
little  on  the  matter,  we  may  begin  to  have  a  glimpse  of  the 
reason  why  Voltaire  called  Shakespeare  an  inspired  barbarian. 

The  three  best  of  his  educational  years,  from  i6  to  19,  Racine 
spent  in  the  famous  monastery  of  Port  Royal,  near  Versailles, 
where  he  as  much  surprised  his  teachers  by  his  rapid  progress, 
particularly  in  Greek,  as  he  delighted  them  by  his  gentle,  affec- 
ionate  but  rather  serious  disposition.  As  for  him  the  impres- 
sion made  both  on  his  heart  and  head  by  the  great  Arnauld 
and  the  other  learned  fathers  died  out  only  with  his  life.  Com- 
pleting his  education  in  a  Paris  college,  he  wrote  some  Latin 
verses  on  the  King's  marriage  which  so  pleased  Louis  XIV. 
that  he  sent  the  young  poet  a  purse  of  100  louis  and  soon  after 
conferred  on  him  a  small  pension  for  life.  In  the  house  of  his 
uncle,  an  old  priest  in  Languedoc,  he  spent  the  next  four  or  five 
years  hesitating  between  theology  and  poetry,  but  in  1664  the 
latter  carried  the  day  —  at  least  for  a  time  —  and  he  came  to 
Paris  to  try  his  fortune  as  dramatic  author.  His  first  plays 
were  only  fairly  successful,  but  Andromache  was  received  with 
an  enthusiasm  recalling  the  grandest  triumphs  of  the  great  Cor- 
ncille.  In  twelve  years  he  produced  ten  or  a  dozen  tragedies 
which  no  French  writer  has  ever  since  surpassed  in  grandeur, 
sublimity,  tender  majesty,  noble  emotion  —  all,  if  rather  above 
man  in  his  nature,  at  least  consistent,  truthful  and  to  this  day 
intensely  interesting.  In  1673  he  was  made  a  member  of  the 
French  Academy,  and  in  1677  he  produced  Phedra,  perhaps 
the  grandest  of  all  his  works,  the  play  in  which  Rachel  pro- 
duced such  a  tremendous  sensation  in  our  own  day. 

Then  came  a  change.  He  had  never  been  able  to  satisfy 
himself  that  his  poetry  was  of  any  real  benefit  to  mankind. 
Glory,  genius,  triumph,  far  from  satisfying  his  longing  heart, 
only  disgusted  it.  At  thirty-eight  he  suddenly  announced  his 
,  intention  to  quit  the  world  forever  by  turning  Trappist.  It  was 
with  the  utmost  difficulty  that  his  friends,  chiefly  his  confessor, 
succeeded  in  overcoming  or  rather  modifying  his  determination 
by  persuading  him  —  since  he  was  resolved  to  quit  public  life 
—  at  least  to  take  some  worthy*  woman  as  a  wife  to  console  hirn 
in  his  solitude.     He  became  the  father  of  a  family,  whom  he 


RACINE.  l6l 

would  never  allow  even  to  talk  of  plays;  though  being  ap- 
pointed historiographer  to  the  King,  he  still  led  a  life  not  quite 
as  retired  as  he  would  like.  Keeping  as  much  aloof  from  the 
world  as  possible,  he  divided  his  time  into  three  parts,  giving 
one-third  to  God,  one-third  to  his  family,  and  one-third  to  the 
King.  He  visited  Louis  occasionally  at  court,  who  loved  to 
converse  with  him  and  to  hear  him  read;  he  even  accompanied 
him  on  several  military  expeditions  in  order  to  be  able  to  see 
for  himself  the  events  he  was  expected  to  relate.  But  poetry 
and  the  drama  he  renounced  so  completely  that  he  could  not 
bear  even  to  hear  his  works  spoken  of.  Being  sent  for  one  day 
and  told  that  it  was  the  King's  pleasure  that  he  should  give  a 
few  lessons  in  elocution  to  one  of  the  princesses,  he  hurried  to 
her  room,  but  finding  that  he  was  expected  to  teach  her  how 
to  recite  some  verses  from  Andromache  which  she  had  got  by 
heart,  he  hastily  withdrew  and  asked  as  a  favor  that  he  would 
never  again  be  called  to  give  any  such  lesson. 

His  last  two  dramas,  ^j/>^^r  and  his  masterpiece  y^Z-^^/zV,  were 
not,  however,  any  violation  of  the  sacred  engagement  into  which 
he  had  entered  with  God.  By  preparing  dramas  of  this  harm- 
less kind  for  representation  by  the  young  ladies  at  the  famous 
conventual  establishment  at  Saint  Cyr,  he  flattered  himself  for 
a  while  that  he  was  only  transforming  and  sanctifying  the  art 
which  he  had  abjured,  and  sacrificing,  as  it  were,  his  genius  to 
the  glory  of  religion.  But  even  these  considerations  soon  ceased 
to  calm  his  sensitive  conscience  ;  the  very  applause  he  received 
filled  him  with  scruples ;  these  two  pieces  ended,  notwithstand- 
ing Madame  de  Maintenon's  importunity,  he  could  never  be 
persuaded  to  write  another.  Never  forgetful,  however,  of  the 
claims  of  duty,  in  1684,  when  Thomas  Corneille  entered  the 
French  Academy  as  successor  to  his  brother  Eierre,  Racine 
pronounced  on  the  memory  of  the  latter  the  discourse  alluded 
to  on  page  81,  which  is  universally  acknowledged  to  be  the 
justest  and  noblest  tribute  of  eulogy  that  ever  issued  from  the 
lips  of  a  rival. 

Henceforth  (1687- 1699),  we  see  Racine  presenting  the  touch- 
ing spectacle  of  a  great  man  humbling  himself,  abasing  himself, 
14*  L 


1 62  NOTES. 

trying  to  content  himself  with  being  nothing  more  than  a  fervent 
Christian,  a  devoted  friend,  and  alovi»g,  thoughtful  father.  His 
letters  plainly  reveal  the  passionate  soul  fluttering  in  its  self- 
imposed  cage,  the  poet's  impassioned  heart  suppressing  its  sub- 
lime longings  with  heroic  abnegation.  Writing  to  his  friend 
Boileau  about  some  critique  on  his  works,  he  says :  "  God  has 
been  graciously  pleased  to  render  me  insensible  to  everything 
that  can  be  said  of  my  tragedies  either  in  praise  or  censure  ;  I 
now  occupy  myself  only  with  thinking  what  excuse  I  can  offer 
Him  for  having  so  foolishly  misspent  my  time." 

In  his  quality  of  historiographer,  he  still  visited  the  court  now 
and  then  and,  in  spite  of  himself,  took  some  pleasure  in  the 
contemplation  of  its  splendors,  in  the  marks  of  respect  and 
affection  with  which  he  was  received  by  his  friends,  and  in  the 
honor  that  was  always  shown  him  by  the  King.  But  even  these 
little  gratifications  did  not  last  to  the  end  of  his  life.  He  sud- 
denly lost  the  King's  favor  in  a  way  as  creditable  to  himself  as 
it  was  discreditable  to  all  the  other  parties.  His  son  Louis,  a 
man  in  every  way  worthy  of  such  a  father,  gives  the  following 
account  of  the  trouble:  "Madame  de  Maintenon,  privately  con- 
versing with  him  one  day  on  the  misery  brought  upon  the  people 
by  the  desolating  war  then  raging,  was  so  pleased  with  the 
justness  of  his  remarks  that  she  requested  him  to  set  down  his 
opinions  in  writing.  He  consented  to  do  so,  receiving  a  promise 
of  secrecy,  and  soon  afterwards  placed  a  treatise  in  her  hands, 
containing  some  severe  strictures  upon  the  condition  of  the 
country  and  the  continuation  of  the  war.  While  she  was  read- 
ing it,  the  King  entered  suddenly  and  took  it  from  her  hand ; 
he  insisted  on  knowing  the  author,  which,  after  a  faint  resist- 
ance, in  spite  of  her  pledge,  she  revealed.  The  King's  face 
darkened.  '  Because  he  knows  how  to  make  perfect  verses,' 
said  he,  '  does  he  think  he  is  a  minister  of  state  ? '  A  little 
while  after  this,  he  ventured  to  solicit  some  small  favor  from 
the  King  ;  it  was  refused."  The  poor,  sensitive  poet  was  stung 
to  the  quick  and  deeply  grieved  by  this  "  disgrace  ;  "  his  grief 
was,  however,  felt  less  severely  on  his  own  account  than  on  that 
of  his  children  who  were  still  very  young.     His  health  was  not 


CORNEFLLE.  1 63 

good,  and  his  bad  spirits  made  it  worse.  His  melancholy  in- 
creased, but  his  gentleness  and  engaging  manners  continued 
the  same  to  the  last.  Towards  the  end  of  1698  he  fell  ill  of  an 
abscess  of  the  liver,  which  carried  him  off  after  some  months' 
painful  sufferings  borne  with  the  courage  of  a  martyr  and  the 
resignation  of  a  Christian. 

Note  4  — CORN  EI  LLE  — page  11. 

Pierre  Corneille  (1606-1684),  surnamed  by  his  country- 
men "the  great,"  the  father  of  French  tragedy,  if  not  the  first 
real  developer  of  French  dramatic  genius,  educated  by  the 
Jesuits,  began  life  as  a  lawyer  at  Rouen,  but  soon  surrendered 
himself  to  poetic  composition.  Even  his  very  first  plays  were 
highly  relished,  being  an  immense  improvement  on  what  the 
public  had  been  accustomed  to  witness,  and  already  manifest- 
ing ingenious  combination,  animated  dialogue,  skilful  plot  and 
striking  situations.  He  soon  attracted  the  notice  of  Riche- 
lieu, at  that  time  not  only  the  all-powerful  minister  of  France 
but  also  the  generous  patron  of  struggling  men  of  letters,  and 
received  from  the  treasury  a  promising  pension.  Finding, 
however,  that  several  innovations  in  the  detail  rather  than  in 
the  principle  of  the  rules  at  that  time  insisted  on  for  dramatic 
composition,  and  suggested  altogether  by  his  own  taste  and 
good  sense,  were  displeasing  to  the  Cardinal,  Corneille  did  not 
hesitate  to  surrender  his  pension  at  once,  and  quietly  withdrew 
to  private  life,  seeing  no  other  way  whereby  he  could  give  way 
without  constraint  to  the  inspirations  and  resources  of  dramatic 
art. 

He  was  now  thirty  years  old,  and  he  felt  that  his  genius  had 
come  to  its  maturity.  By  the  advice  of  an  old  friend  he  studied 
Spanish,  and  was  soon  revelling  in  the  masterpieces  of  Spanish 
literature  at  that  time  enjoying  its  golden  era.  The  result  was 
The  Cid,  in  many  eyes  the  poet's  masterpiece,  and  certainly  the 
corner-stone  of  French  tragedy.  The  subject  was  grand  and  en- 
nobhng,  the  terrible  struggle  of  mighty  passions  against  mighty 
passions,  of  sublime  duty  against  both,  at  once  lifting  the  souls  of 
the  audience  aloft  and  profoundly  touching  their  hearts.    Nevei 


164  NOTES. 

before  had  anything  like  it  appeared  on  the  French  stage.  The 
public  enthusiasm  knew  no  bounds.  But  it  would  seem  that 
by  this  success  Corneille  rendered  himself  again  displeasing  to 
Richelieu,  who  felt  offended  at  the  triumphs  accorded  to  a  writer 
who,  as  everybody  well  knew,  had  had  the  courage  to  brave  him 
by  resigning  his  pension.  In  a  public  letter  of  Corneille's  too 
written  at  this  time  some  verses  appeared  in  which  he  boasted 
that  he  had  employed  no  underhand  means  to  obtain  friends 
and  that  his  success  was  due  to  himself  alone.  The  public, 
whether  rightly  or  wrongly,  considered  these  lines  to  be  lev- 
elled at  the  Cardinal,  who,  much  irritated,  ordered  the  French 
Academy,  just  then  created  and  entirely  depending  on  the  great 
Minister  for  its  very  existence,  to  pronounce  either  for  The  Cid 
or  for  a  severe,  violent  and  unjust  criticism  that  had  been  lately 
written  against  it  by  another  poet  —  Scudery.  Everybody  ex- 
pected nothing  less  than  an  act  of  base  submission,  but  the 
Academy  was  faithful  to  itself  in  this  critical  juncture ;  it  ex- 
pressed in  unqualified  terms  its  highest  admiration  for  the  great 
and  numerous  beauties  of  The  Cid,  though  it  did  not  hesitate 
at  the  same  time  to  find  fault  with  some  of  what  it  considered 
decided  imperfections  in  the  great  drama. 

The  greatest  and  most  obvious  fault  to  be  found  with  Corneille's 
two  tragedies  Medea  and  The  Cid  was  their  alleged  want  of 
originality,  one  being  said  to  be  taken  from  the  Latin  and  the 
other  from  the  Spanish.  In  reality  nothing  had  been  taken 
from  either  but  the  subject.  But  such  cavillings  were  soon 
hushed  forever  by  the  appearance  oi  Horace  and  Cinna  (1639), 
Polyeucte  ( 1 640) ,  Pojnpee  ( 1 64 1 ) ,  and  Rodogtme  ( 1 646) .  Horace 
electrified  the  public.  Its  sublime  energy  and  profoundly  dra- 
matic situations  took  them  by  storm.  It  contains  the  famous 
Oa'a  mourut,  alluded  to  on  page  65,  of  which  Voltaire,  Cor- 
neille's most  unsparing  though  on  the  whole  perhaps  most 
judicious  critic,  says  :  "  There  is  nothing  like  it  in  all  antiquity  ; 
the  whole  audience  was  so  transported.with  it  at  its  first  hearing 
that  they  rose  en  masse  and  drowned  in  storms  of  applause  the 
weak  line  that  followed  it."^ 
The  defects  of  Cinna  were  more  than  amply  compensated  for 


CORNETLLE.  1 65 

by  its  beauties,  one  of  its  scenes  being  unsurpassed  by  anything 
ever  written,  but  it  is  Polyeucte  that  is  generally  considered  the 
highest  effort  of  Corneille's  genius ;  it  is  at  least  the  most  per- 
fect of  his  plays ;  its  interesting  plot  unites  with  great  effect  the 
graceful  and  the  tender  with  the  powerful  and  the  sublime 
This  is  the  kind  of  tragedy  that  Racine  soon  carried  to  perfec- 
tion. In  Le  Mentettr  (1642)  comedy  too  had  got  its  first  start 
from  Corneille ;  this  memorable  work  gave  such  a  lively  and 
natural  picture  of  the  manners  of  the  time  that  Moliere  may  be 
very  justly  considered  as  having  taken  it  for  a  model  of  what 
genuine  comedy  ought  to  be  ;  in  fact  he  acknowledged  him 
openly  as  his  master  and  the  first  dramatist  of  the  age. 

He  was  now  in  the  zenith  of  his  success  (1647);  he  was  a 
member  of  the  French  Academy ;  he  had  long  since  become 
the  friend  and  protege  of  Richelieu  ;  and  his  pension  had  been 
restored  —  still  a  small  one,  it  is  true,  and  after  the  death  of 
his  noble  patron  often  neglected  and  even  suspended. 

From  this  date,  however,  his  powers  seemed  to  dechne.  His  re- 
maining plays,  though  full  of  fine  passages,  are  often  deficient  in 
construction  and  were  perhaps  written  too  hurriedly  under  press- 
ure of  pecuniary  difficulties.  One  of  them,  Pertharite,  failed 
so  lamentably  that  he  withdrew  for  a  long  time  from  the  theatre 
altogether,  deeply  displeased  with  what  he  perhaps  considered 
the  fickleness  of  the  public  taste.  To  give  his  active  mind  some- 
thing to  do  in  his  retirement,  he  devoted  several  years  to  trans- 
lating into  French  verse  A'  Kempis's  bnitation  of  Christ,  an 
employment  helping  both  to  soothe  his  troubles  and  to  nourish 
the  sentiments  of  piety  which  from  his  childhood  he  had  always 
entertained.  This  translation  is  still  greatly  admired  and  has 
reached  already  more  than  forty  different  editions. 

In  1659,  at  the  instigation  of  his  friend  and  patron  Fouquet, 
superintendent  of  finances,  Corneille  appeared  again  before 
the  public,  but  none  of  his  new  tragedies  met  with  anything 
like  his  former  success,  and  the  old  poet  had  the  additional 
mortification  of  seeing  his  glories  almost  completely  effaced  in 
the  splendor  surrounding  his  young  and  brilliant  rival  Racine. 

But  later  generations  have  done  Corneille  full  justice.     They 


1 66  NOTES. 

grant  his  extreme  inequality,  that  his  style  is  often  injured  by 
bombastic  declamations,  his  action  deadened  by  long  conver- 
sations, his  incidents  dulled  by  endless  arguments,  his  natural- 
ness spoiled  by  too  close  an  adherence  to  the  unities.  But  for 
much  of  this  they  blame  his  age  more  than  himself,  and  now, 
nearly  two  hundred  years  after  his  death,  the  world  still  admires 
his  energetic,  rousing,  and  reverberating  verses,  his  striking  con- 
trasts of  the  great  passions,  his  vivid  portraiture  of  antique 
grandeur,  his  skilful  handling  of  historical  detail,  his  sudden 
flashes  of  true  sublimity,  his  kindling  warmth,  his  rugged  strength, 
and  his  honest  simplicity  of  heart. 

This  great  man  was  well  read,  and  of  irreproachable  morals, 
but  his  temper  was  hasty,  his  countenance  stern,  his  manners 
rather  blunt,  and  his  conversational  powers,  perhaps  from 
physical  defect,  by  no  means  remarkable. 

The  friendship  and  intimacy  existing  between  him  and  his  illus- 
trious brother  THOMAS  CORNEILLE,  considered  by  Voltaire 
to  be  the  third  dramatic  author  of  the  time,  gives  us  a  pleasant  idea 
of  the  simplicity  of  family  life  in  the  seventeenth  century.  Pierre 
and  Thomas  married  two  sisters  between  whom  existed  the  same 
difference  of  age  as  between  themselves.  They  had  the  same 
number  of  children.  They  lived  continually  in  the  same  house, 
whether  at  Paris  or  Rouen,  and  had  the  same  servant.  For 
twenty-five  years  of  married  life  they  never  thought  of  dividing 
their  wives'  property,  until  this  division  was  rendered  absolutely 
necessary  by  the  death  of  Pierre  whom  Thomas,  twenty  years 
younger,  survived  by  twenty-five  years.  A  French  biographical 
work  says  of  Corneille:  "While  the  Academy  was  endeavoring 
to  correct  the  language  which  Pascal  was  destined  to  fix  and 
Racine  to  polish,  Corneille  created  and  formed  it,  by  giving  it 
force  and  precision  in  reasoning,  energy  and  depth  in  discourse, 
elevation  and  sublimity  in  sentiment,  and  dignity  and  majesty 
in  the  utterance  of  kings  and  heroes." 

Napoleon  was  an  intense  admirer  of  Corneille  ;  he  called  him 
at  once  France's  Shakespeare  and  Dante,  and  often  said  if  he 
had  lived  during  the  empire  that  he  would  have  made  him  a 
prince. 


MOLl'kRE,  167 

Note  5  —  MOLIJ^RE  —  page  11. 

Jean  Baptiste  Poquelin  (1622-1673),  better  known  by  his 
assumed  name  de  Moli^re,  the  prince  of  French  comic  poets, 
perhaps  the  greatest  comic  dramatist  of  any  age  or  country,  was 
the  son  of  one  of  the  upholsterers  of  the  palace  who  afterwards 
became  one  of  the  King's  valets-de-chambre .  Expected  by  his 
father  to  follow  his  own  humble  occupation,  he  was  hardly  a  )le 
to  read  or  write  at  fourteen ;  but  being  often  taken  by  his  grand- 
father to  the  Hotel  de  Bourgogne,  the  chief  theatre  at  that  time 
in  Paris  and  the  scene  of  all  Corneille's  and  Racine's  master- 
pieces, young  Poquelin  was  so  delighted  with  what  he  saw  there 
that  he  easily  persuaded  his  father  to  give  him  a  good  educa- 
tion. He  spent  five  years  in  the  Jesuit  College  of  Clermont, 
making  very  good  use  of  his  time,  one  of  his  teachers  being 
Gassendi,  the  famous  astronomer. 

In  1641  his  education  was  finished,  and  Poquelin's  father 
being  now  old  and  infirm,  the  son  took  his  place  as  valet-de- 
chambre  to  the  King  (Louis  XIII.) ;  but  his  court  duties  could 
not  have  been  veiy  absorbing,  for  he  seems  to  have  formed  a 
number  of  young  folks,  passionately  fond  of  theatricals  like  him- 
self, into  a  kind  of  company  whose  fame  soon  grew  so  great 
that  from  amateurs  they  became  professionals,  opening  a  little 
theatre  for  themselves,  very  much  relished  by  the  public  under 
the  name  of  the  Theatre  Illustre.  It  was  at  this  time,  that  to 
spare  the  feelings  of  his  family  who  looked  on  his  association 
with  play-actors  as  a  degradation,  he  adopted  the  surname 
Moliere,  the  name  of  a  well-known  actor  and  author  of  the  day. 

The  civil  disturbance  known  as  the  T'ronde  (164.8-16^4.)  broke 
up  the  Theatre  Illustre,  but  even  before  the  return  of  peace  we 
find  him  strolling  through  the  provinces  at  the  head  of  a  little 
troupe,  playing  farces  and  other  light  pieces  generally  of  his 
own  composition.  L Etourdi,  his  first  seriously  constructed 
piece,  a  five-act  comedy  in  verse,  was  given  at  Lyons  in  1653 
with  so  much  success  that  the  actors  of  a  rival  troupe,  by  break- 
ing their  engagements  and  joining  Moliere,  enabled  him  to  re- 
sume his  rambling  trip  through  southern  France  with  greater 


1 68  NOTES. 

success  than  ever  as  manager,  actor  and  poet,  his  hverines^ 
observation,  good-humor  and  highly  original  genius  enabling 
him  to  turn  every  vicissitude  to  the  best  account. 

At  Beziers  he  played  the  Depit  Amoureux  before  the  Prince 
of  Conti,  one  of  his  old  school-fellows  at  the  Jesuit  College  ;  the 
Prince,  a  member  of  the  blood  royal,  was  so  charmed  with 
Moliere  that  he  wished  to  make  him  his  secretary  for  life  with  a 
good  salary,  but  this  offer  the  poet  respectfully  declined,  pre- 
ferring liberty  to  every  other  consideration,  and  continuing  the 
adventurous,  precarious,  but  exciting  life  of  a  strolling  manager 
for  five  years  longer.  The  Prince,  however,  did  not  forget  him, 
and  finding  him  in  Paris  in  1658,  he  recommended  him  so 
sJ;rongly  to  Louis  XIV.  and  to  the  King's  brother  the  Duke  of 
Orleans,  whose  title  was  Monsieur,  that  Moliere  was  not  only 
permitted  to  rent  conjointly  with  an  Italian  company  the  Petit- 
Bourbon  theatre,  but  also  to  designate  his  actors  as  the  Troup& 
de  Monsieur. 

His  first  serious  effort  here  was  the  Precieuses  Ridicules,  a 
humorous  though  rather  farcical  satire  directed  against  an  over- 
refinement  in  language  and  manners  affected  by  many  well 
known  court  ladies.  At  its  very  first  appearance  its  superior 
merit  was  recognized.  "  Courage,  Moliere  !  "  cried  an  old  gen- 
tleman in  the  audience,  "that's  true  comedy!"  All  Paris 
rushed  to  see  it,  and  though  the  price  of  admission  was  trebled 
the  piece  had  a  run  of  four  months.  True  comedy  has  never 
since  quitted  the  French  stage. 

From  the  Petit-Bourbon  he  soon  removed  to  the  theatre  of  the 
Palais  Royal,  inaugurating  his  entry,  however,  very  unsuccess- 
fully with  a  play  of  the  severe  kind,  Don  Garcia  de  Navarre, 
not  at  all  suitable  to  his  talents,  to  attempt  which,  however,  he 
had  been  unwisely  induced  by  the  sneers  of  envious  rivals 
In  1 66 1  L Ecole  des  Maris  easily  restored  his  reputation  by  its 
rich  humor  and  thorough  faithfulness  to  human  nature ;  and  in 
the  same  year  appeared  Les  Facheux,  a  piece  written,  learned, 
and  played  within  a  fortnight  to  celebrate  the  famous  fete 
gotten  up  by  Fouquet  to  welcome  Louis's  visit  to  his  chateau 
at  Vaux.     In  spite  of  the  haste  of  its  composition,  the  King 


MO  LIE  RE.  169 

enjoyed  its  wit  and  fun  hugely  and  his  laughter  was  echoed  by 
all  Paris. 

Every  year  his  theatre  was  enriched  by  something  new  from 
his  ready  pen,  L Ecole  des  Femmes,  Le  Mariage  force.  Amour 
Mi'decin,  etc.,  coming  out  in  quick  succession.  In  1665  his  Don 
yuan  appeared,  and  in  1666  Le  Misanthrope,  a  perfect  comedy 
in  which  the  style  is  faultless  and  nothing  seems  to  be  lacking 
to  the  naturalness,  the  reality,  or  the  truth  of  the  personages 
represented.  This  is  generally  considered  ^q  be  his  master- 
piece, though,  strange  to  say,  the  public  at  firsi  hardly  appeared 
to  relish  it,  and  he  bitterly  complains  that  an  audience  had  to 
be  dragged  to  its  representation  by  the  roaring  farce  of  Z^ 
Medecin  malgre  lui  (the  Mock  Doctor). 

Moliere  seemed  now  to  be  at  the  culmination  of  his  wishes. 
His  company  received  a  pension  of  ycxx)  Hvres  a  year  and  bore 
the  name  of  the  Troupe  du  Rot,  and  himself  was  held  in  such 
high  esteem  that  Louis  stood  at  the  baptismal  font  as  godfather 
to  his  first  child,  the  godmother  being  no  less  than  Henrietta  of 
England,  the  widowed  queen  of  Charles  the  First.  But  he  was 
anything  but  happy.  His  health  had  never  been  good,  and 
he  was  occupied  so  incessantly  that  he  could  never  give  it  a 
moment's  careful  attention.  He  loved  his  young  wife  to  dis- 
traction, but  she  made  him  miserable  by  her  reckless  levities. 
His  wit,  humor  and  untiring  industry  kept  the  world  in  good 
humor,  but  his  enemies  and  rivals  often  rendered  him  wretched 
by  their  bitter  criticisms  to  which  indeed  a  coarse  passage  or 
two  in  his  plays  gave  severe  point,  or  by  their  outrageous  re- 
ports on  his  morality  to  which  he  was  too  proud  or  too  sensitive 
to  reply.  But  many  of  the  best  men  of  the  day  eagerly  sought 
his  friendship  and  carefully  cultivated  it.  Boileau  in  particular 
endeavored  to  cheer  him  up  by  frequent  testimonies  of  profound 
admiration  given  in  public  as  well  as  private.  The  haughty 
courtiers,  jealous  of  what  they  called  a  valet's  influence  with 
the  King,  and  insulting  him  with  cowardly  sneers  in  the  ante- 
chambers, felt  themselves  obliged  to  cringe  before  him  and 
loudly  extol  his  merits  whenever  they  met  him  face  to  face  in 
the  King's  presence.  Louis  indeed  never  ceased  to  appreciate 
15 


I/O  NOTES. 

the  man,  always  showing  himself  generous,  benevolent  and 
friendly.  It  is  a  well  known  story  that  he  invited  the  poet  one 
morning  to  a  private  breakfast  with  himself  in  order  to  show 
that  what  was  good  company  enough  for  the  King  should  be 
good  enough  even  for  his  highest  nobility. 

Our  short  sketch  is  getting  too  long.  In  1667  appeared 
his  celebrated  Tartufe,  so  well  known  in  English  as  The 
Hypocrite,  and  in  1668,  LAvare,  "The  Miser,"  his  first  great 
comedy  in  prose.  In  1670  he  gave  the  world  his  famous 
Bourgeois  Ge7itUhomme,  "  as  well  known  on  the  shores  of  the 
Caspian  as  in  Paris;"  in  1671  the  Fourberies  de  Scapin ;  in 
1672  Les  Fenmies  Savantes,  and  in  1673  his  last  if  not  his  best, 
Le  Malade  Imaginaire,  the  "  Hypochondriac,"  alluded  to  on 
page  79. 

For  some  time  his  health  had  been  failing,  still  he  was  deter- 
mined even  against  the  advice  of  his  friends  to  act  once  more 
the  part  of  Argan  in  Z<?  Malade  on  the  evening  of  Feb.  17,  1673. 
Doctor  he  had  none.  He  hated  the  whole  tribe ;  partly  because 
the  majority  of  physicians  at  that  time  were  excessively  igno- 
rant and  pretentious,  partly  because  he  had  tried  them  in  his 
own  case  and  found  them  sadly  wanting.  To  his  remonstrating 
friends  he  simply  replied :  "I  must  appear  this  time  at  least. 
How  can  my  poor  workmen  live  if  I  don't  ?  As  long  as  I  am 
able  to  move  I  shall  scruple  depriving  them  of  bread  a  single 
day."  He  played  the  piece  ;  but  in  the  last  act  where  the  Doc- 
tors perform  the  mock  ceremony  in  mock  Latin,  just  as  he  was 
trying  to  pronounce  the  v^ordijuro,  a  convulsion  attacked  him 
which  he  strove  in  vain  to  hide  under  a  forced  smile.  He  was 
instantly  conveyed  to  his  own  house,  where  two  Sisters,  making 
their  regular  Lenten  quest  for  the  poor  of  Paris,  happened  at 
the  moment  to  be  staying  with  his  wife.  While  Madame  Mo- 
liere  was  getting  restoratives  and  sending  for  priest  and  physi- 
cian, the  good  Sisters  showed  the  suffering  man  every  attention 
that  their  charity  could  think  of;  but  his  hemorrhages  grew 
worse,  and  he  had  time  only  to  say  a  few  words  in  which  he 
revealed  all  the  sentiments  of  a  good  Christian  and  complete 
submission  to  the  will  of  his  Creator,  when  he  died  in  their 


CONSER  VA  TO  I  RE.  1 7 1 

arms  a  few  minutes  before  the  arrival  of  the  priest  who  had 
come  to  administer  the  hist  sacrament. 

In  those  days  the  Church  usually  denounced  the  profession 
of  players  as  infamous,  but  in  consideration  of  Moliere's  well- 
known  merit  and  generally  correct  conduct,  the  ordinary  regu- 
lation was  not  enforced.  He  was  allowed  to  be  buried  in  the 
parish  cemetery,  the  funeral,  however,  having  to  take  place  in 
the  night-time  and  only  two  priests  being  allowed  to  be  present 
at  the  ceremony. 

Huet,  the  learned  bishop  of  Avranches,  Normandy,  wrote  the 
following  epitaph  in  honor  of  Moliere's  memory  : 

Plaudebat,  Moleri,  tibi  plenis  aula  theatris  : 
Nunc  eadem  moerens  post  tua  fata  gemit. 

Si  risum  nobis  movisses  parcius  olim, 

Parcius,  heu  !  lacryntis  tingeret  ora  dolor. 

(Moliere,  the  court  that  so  often  honored  thy  appearance  on  the  stage  with  ap- 
plause the  loudest  now  honors  thee  in  thy  grave  with  grief  the  most  profound  ;  smiles 
hinumdrable  thy  presence  once  shed  around  thee,  tears  innumerable  now  gush  from 
our  eyes  at  thy  absence  1) 

In  twenty  years  he  had  composed  thirty-one  comedies,  of  which 
nearly  one-half  are  incomparable  masterpieces,  and  in  the  other 
half  are  scenes  which  his  most  illustrious  successors  have  not  sur- 
passed. On  account  of  his  profession  he  was  not  made  a  Mem- 
ber of  the  French  Academy  during  his  life,  but  in  a  prominent 
position,  under  the  dome  of  the  Institute,  can  be  seen  to-day 
his  bust,  bearing  the  flattering  inscription  : 

Rien  ne  manque  a  sa  gloire ;  il  manquait  a  la  nbtre. 
(Nothing  is  wanting  to  his  glory ;  he  was  wanting  to  ours.) 


Note  6  -CONSERVATOIRE  — page  ii. 

The  Conservatoire  de  Musique  et  de  Declamation  of 
Paris,  in  the  buildings  once  occupied  by  the  Monks  of  Saint 
Martin,  is  at  present  the  most  famous  music  school  in  the  world. 
It  has  seventy  teachers,  and  its  nine  hundred  pupils  receive 
gratuitous  instruction.  It  is  the  great  training-school  for  thea- 
tre and  opera. 


1/2  NOTES. 

Note  7  — BOUILLY  — page  ii 

Jean  Nicholas  Bouilly  (1763-1842),  dramatist  and  educa- 
tional writer  of  some  celebrity.  His  best  play  is  L'Abbe  d6 
Epee,  still  well  known  on  the  French  stage.  His  Stories  for 
my  daughter.  Counsels  to  my  daughter,  Young  Women,  and 
other  educational  warks  were  read  with  avidity  by  the  last 
generation  and,  in  spite  of  their  somewhat  florid  style,  are 
not  yet  forgotten.  He  was  the  elder  Legouve's  friend,  and 
our  author's  faithful  guardian. 

Note  8  — STRADIVARIUS  — page  12. 

Antonio  Stradivarius(i67o-i746),  native  of  Cremona,  pupil 
of  the  Amati,  the  famous  violin  manufacturers,  surpassed  even 
his  masters  by  the  perfection  to  which  he  brought  his  instru- 
ments. A  Stradivarius  to-day  that  is  about  160  or  180  years 
old  commands  a  price  of  ^3000. 

Note  9  —  SAMSON  —  page  12. 

Joseph  Isidore  Samson  (i 793-1 871),  born  near  Paris,  dis- 
tinguished at  once  as  dramatic  artist,  dramatic  author,  associate 
of  the  Theatre-Frangais ,  and  professor  of  elocution  at  the  Con- 
servatoire. His  characters  about  250  in  number,  though  now 
and  then  rather  dry,  were  distinguished  by  a  rare  elegance  and 
individuality  ;  among  the  most  remarkable  may  be  mentioned 
the  Marquis  in  Le  Fils  de  Giboyer.  His  best  drama  is  perhaps 
Le  Dot  de  ma  Fille ;  and  among  his  most  famous  pupils  were 
Rachel  and  the  two  Brohans. 

Note  10  — PROVOST— page  12. 

Jean  Baptiste  Francois  Provost  (i 798-1 865),  born  at 
Paris,  associate  of  the  Theatre- Frangais  where  he  mainly  ex- 
celled in  plays  of  the  old  school,  but  his  impersonations  of 
Charrier  the  banker  and  Marechal  the  deputy  in  Augier's 
well-known  plays  were  rendered  with  great  effect.  He  was 
distinguished  for  naturalness,  fire  and  elegance. 


REGNIE-R.  173 

Note  II  — REGNIER  — page  12. 

Francois  Joseph  Regnier  (1807  )  played  for  a  long 

iimc  with  Samson  and  Provost  the  leading  comic  parts  in  the 
classical,  romantic,  and  contemporary  drama.  He  is  perhaps 
best  remembered  in  the  pathetic  part  of  the  old  servant  in 
Madame  Girardin's  little  piece,  La  joie  fait  peur,  the  role  so 
excellently  played  by  Boucicault  in  his  adaptation  of  Kerry ^ 
Regnier  was  also  professor  of  dramatic  elocution  at  the  Con- 
servatoire, and  he  has  had  considerable  share  in  the  composi- 
tion of  several  popular  comedies. 

Note  12  — GOT  — page  12. 

Francois  J.  E.  Got  (1822  ),  probably  the  first  comic 

actor  of  the  day  in  the  Theatre- Fraiigais.  He  is  distinguished 
for  his  great  power  and  masterly  finish.  Among  his  most 
successful  creations  are  Jean  de  Rieux  in  Le  Due  Job,  and 
Giboyer  in  Augier's  remarkable  drama. 

Note  13  —  DELAUNAY  —  page  12. 

Louis  ArsI:ne  Delaunay  (1826 ),  born  in  Paris,  has  been 

for  the  last  fifteen  or  twenty  years  the  most  indispensable  of  all 
the  male  artists  of  the  Theatre- Frangais.  Though  now  fifty-three, 
he  is  still  as  distinguished  as  ever  for  his  fine  person,  his  grace, 
warmth,  poetic  naturalness,  and  particularly  for  his  pure  diction 
and  clear  silvery  voice.  He  is  most  at  home  in  classic  comedy, 
but  he  has  played  some  of  the  great  parts  of  the  modern  stage 
with  extraordinary  success. 

Note  14  —  MARS — page  13. 

Anne  Fran^oise  Mars  (1779-1847),  born  at  Paris,  daughter 
of  the  actor  Monvel,  but  always  known  by  her  mother's  name, 
was  for  thirty  years  the  undisputed  queen  of  the  Theatre-Fran- 
fais,  succeeding  Mademoiselle  Contat  in  181 2,  and  not  quitting 
the  stage  until  1841.  At  first,  however,  though  always  remark- 
able for  her  beauty,  grace,  and  enchanting  voice,  her  success 
was  by  no  means  remarkable ;  but  by  continual  and  careful 
study  she  at  last  acquired  such  perfection  of  style  as  to  be  justly 
15* 


174  NOTES. 

surnamed  the  Inimitable.  Beginning  with  the  part  of  the  deaf 
and  dumb  girl  in  Bouilly's  drama  of  L Abbe  de  V Epee,  she 
created  more  than  a  hundred  parts,  one  of  the  most  wonderful 
being  that  of  Mademoiselle  de  Belle  Isle  in  the  elder  Dumas's 
play,  where,  though  sixty  years  of  age,  she  displayed  all  the  life, 
beauty  and  charming  freshness  of  a  young  woman  of  twenty. 

Note  15  — RACHEL— page  13. 

Elizabeth  Rachel  Felix  (1820- 1858),  the  meteoric  actress 
of  our  century,  and  in  many  respects  the  grandest  tragedienne 
that  ever  lived,  was  born  in  Switzerland  of  poor  French-Jewish 
parents,  who  were  travelling  through  the  country  in  the  humble 
avocation  of  peddlers.  In  Lyons  they  opened  an  old-clothes 
store,  and  the  children  sang  in  the  streets,  little  Rachel  strum- 
ming an  old  guitar,  and  collecting  the  coppers.  After  a  while 
they  removed  to  Paris,  continuing  pretty  much  the  same  kind 
of  life,  the  father,  a  keen  man  of  great  intelligence,  also  giving 
lessons  in  German.  The  appearance  of  the  children  exciting 
some  interest,  somebody  procured  their  admission  into  the  Con- 
servatoire, which  institution  Rachel,  who  had  no  singing  voice, 
soon  left  to  learn  elocution  under  Professor  St.  Aulaire  in  his 
private  theatre.  Here  she  studied  till  1836,  when  Samson,  a 
professor  at  the  Conservatoire,  was  so  struck  by  her  style  of 
recitation  that  he  induced  her  to  enter  that  famous  school  again, 
into  which  she  gained  ready  admittance  in  spite  of  her  dwarfed 
bony  figure.  But  the  change  hardly  improved  her  prospects. 
Provost,  another  famous  professor,  hearing  her  recite  one  day, 
told  her  without  ceremony  that  she  had  the  voice  of  a  coster- 
monger. 

"  Go  sell  bouquets,  child,"  said  he,  "  that 's  all  you  '11  ever  be 
fit  for."  Her  voice  at  this  time,  in  fact,  was  so  rough  that  an 
operation  had  to  be  performed  on  her  tonsils  to  improve  it. 

Greatly  discouraged,  she  left  the  Conservatoire,  but  her  old 
teacher  St.  Aulaire  soon  procured  her  an  engagement  at  the 
Gymnase.  Her  debut  in  la  Vendeenne,  a  drama  written  for  her 
expressly  by  Paul  Duport,  attracted  some  attention.     "  This 


RACHEL,  17$ 

child  of  fifteen,"  said  the  Debats,  "though  she  will  never  be 
cried  up  as  a  wonder,  possesses  soul,  heart,  intellect,  but  very 
little  skill;  ....  she  excites  tears,  emotion,  interest."  Still  her 
strong  peculiarities,  her  gravity,  her  occasional  attempts  at  sub- 
limity, her  small,  slim,  angular  figure,  soon  ceased  to  interest 
the  general  public.  Forrest,  however,  who  happened  to  be  in 
Paris  about  this  time  on  his  wedding  tour,  had  no  hesitation 
in  saying  to  the  manager:  "That  Jewish-looking  girl,  the  little 
bag-of-bones  with  the  marble  face  and  the  flaming  eyes,  is  pos- 
sessed of  a  power  actually  demoniacal !  " 

Samson  too,  who  had  been  interested  in  her  from  the  begin- 
ning, and  who  continued  to  be  her  truest  friend  as  long  as  she 
lived,  had  no  difficulty  in  getting  her  engagement  at  the  Gym- 
nase  cancelled  and  procuring  another  for  her  of  a  provisional 
nature  at  the  Thkdtre-Frani^ais ,  with  a  salary  of  about  800  dol- 
lars a  year.  He  took  the  greatest  pains  to  prepare  her  for  a 
successful  debut ;  and  his  labor  to  overcome  her  deficiencies, 
and  to  impart  clearness,  simplicity,  breadth  of  style,  with  per- 
fect purity  of  diction,  were  most  enthusiastically  seconded  by 
his  pupil.  A  characteristic  anecdote  is  told  of  her  life  at  this 
time. 

Samson  had  given  her  two  tickets  in  a  prominent  part  of  the 
house  for  some  performance  which  he  was  desirous  she  should 
witness  in  the  Theatre- Frangais,  but  the  sight  of  two  such 
plainly-dressed  women  (Rachel  and  her  mother)  occupying 
such  good  seats  was  too  much  for  the  usher.  "  There  must  be 
some  mistake  about  this,"  said  he  roughly:  "you  can't  stay 
here.  I  will  show  you  your  place,"  and  he  sent  them  up  to 
some  back  seat  at  the  top  of  the  house.  Rachel  did  not  say  a 
word,  smothering  her  resentment  in  her  keen  desire  to  see  the 
play,  but  Samson  was  exceedingly  indignant. 

"  The  day  will  come,"  cried  he  to  the  usher,  "  when  the  little 
girl  you  have  treated  so  rudely  will  make  you  tremble  in  your 
boots.  She  will  be  the  sovereign  queen  of  the  house  that  you 
have  tried  to  turn  her  out  of !  " 

In  June,  1838,  she  made  her  first  appearance  in  the  Fran(;ah 
as  Camille  in  Corneille's  play  of  Horace  {the  Horatii).     Hei 


176  NOTES. 

success  with  the  audience,  such  as  it  was,  was  complete,  but  the 
receipts  were  poor,  hardly  150  dollars.  In  fact,  the  classic 
drama  was  almost  dead  at  the  time ;  since  the  days  of  Talma 
and  Duchesnois,  no  actor  had  been  able  to  keep  it  alive ;  the 
freadom,  the  variety,  and  the  dazzling  glare  of  the  modern 
drama  had  incapacitated  people  from  listening  even  with  patience 
to  long  recitations  in  monotonous  Alexandrines  ;  the  Frangais 
itself  was  heavily  in  debt ;  and  the  announcement  of  any  of 
the  old  tragedies  turned  the  once  crowded  house  into  a  desert. 
Rachel's  appearance  in  her  other  parts,  Emilie  in  Corneille's 
Cmna,  and  Hermione  in  Racine's  Andromache,  did  not  much 
improve  the  appearance  of  things ;  the  receipts,  in  fact,  steadily 
declined.  For  three  months  not  one  word  in  her  praise  appeared 
in  the  papers.  It  is  said  that  the  societaires  of  the  Theatre-Fran- 
gais  severely  criticised  her  size,  shape,  voice  and  gestures,  and 
would  have  at  once  dropped  her  from  the  list  of  salaried  actors, 
but  for  the  earnest  interference  of  Mademoiselle  Mars. 

But  Janin,  the  "  Prince  of  Critics,"  was  astounded  at  what  he 
witnessed  at  the  Frangais  the  first  night  after  his  return  from 
his  summer  trip.  An  enthusiastic  article  of  his  in  next  morn- 
ing's Debats  revealed  the  new  prodigy  to  the  world.  People 
came  in  hurrying  from  the  country,  months  in  advance,  to  see 
the  imperishable  masterpieces  of  old  tragedy  once  more  restored 
to  life.  Every  seat  was  taken.  Rachel  electrified  every  audi- 
ence. The  most  glorious  days  of  Mademoiselle  Mars  and 
Talma  were  eclipsed.  Louis  Philippe  presented  himself  in 
person  to  compliment  the  wonderful  actress ;  he  took  her  kindly 
by  the  hand,  and  next  day  sent  her  a  gift  of  a  thousand  francs. 
The  management  made  her  engagement  permanent  for  two 
years,  at  1600  dollars  a  year,  an  enormous  sum  in  those  days, 
before  the  baleful  system  of  "  starring  "  had  begun  to  spoil  one 
actor,  and  to  starve  the  others.  They  moreover  presented  her 
with  three  very  expensive  costumes,  besides  several  extra  sums 
of  money. 

This  sudden  prosperity  seems  to  have  keenly  excited  her 
father's  cupidity,  and  probably  her  own  too,  which  was  just  as 
fierce.     Engagements  with  a  minor,  he  soon  found  out,  were 


RACHEL,  177 

null  and  void,  and  as  her  natural  guardian  he  forbade  her  to  per- 
form at  less  than  60,000  francs  a  year.  Samson,  not  believing 
such  a  report,  asked  his  pupil  if  it  were  true.  Rachel  replied 
without  hesitation,  that,  being  a  minor,  she  had  nothing  to  say, 
the  Civil  Code  giving  her  father  supreme  power  in  such  mat- 
ters. Her  teacher  was  extremely  indignant  at  such  barefaced 
worship  of  the  golden  calf.  "  I  have  tried  to  teach  you  dec- 
lamation," said  he,  "  not  chicanery.  The  Civil  Code  is  not 
the  place  to  look  for  honor  or  decency.  Sortez  !''  But  she 
knew  her  business  better  than  to  quarrel  with  such  a  teacher, 
and  they  were  soon  again  on  the  best  of  terms. 

In  these  quarrels  the  public  took  very  little  concern.  The 
general  infatuation  over  the  favorite  grew  greater  every  day. 
Roxane,  a  new  and  most  difficult  part  in  Racine's  Bajazet,  was 
the  next  triumph,  Mademoiselle  Mars  being  particularly  vehe- 
ment in  applause.  The  management,  feeling  their  impotence, 
compromised  the  matter  for  a  while  by  advancing  her  salary 
from  8  to  20  thousand  francs  a  year.  Rachel  became  the 
fashionable  rage.  The  proudest  aristocratic  fetes  were  felt  to 
be  incomplete  without  her  presence.  Here  she  felt  quite  at 
home.  The  humility  of  her  origin,  and  the  poverty  of  her 
early  years,  had  left  no  branding-mark  either  on  her  person  or 
her  manners.-  She  was  always  grande  dame.  So  keen  was  her 
intuition  of  the  proprieties,  and  so  ready  her  power  of  instantly 
adapting  herself  to  the  refinements  of  high  life,  that  she  never 
appeared  out  of  place,  even  in  the  most  brilliant  and  exclusive 
salons  of  Paris. 

In  spite,  however,  of  the  dazzling  glamour  that  surrounded 
the  young  actress,  even  her  greatest  admirers  could  soon  see 
that  her  chief  forte  lay  in  the  delineation  of  the  stormy,  the 
powerful,  the  agonizing,  the  pitiless,  rather  than  in  the  loving, 
the  delicate,  the  attractive,  and  that  she  was  inspired  rather  by 
Corneille's  gloomy  austerity  than  by  Racine's  enchanting  tender- 
ness ;  her  detractors  even  whispered  that  she  was  only  a  wonder- 
ful doll  of  varied  and  ingenious  mechanism,  with  sense  enough 
to  obey  her  teacher  strictly,  but  otherwise  without  soul,  heart, 
or  brains.     Accordingly  her  next  attempt,  Pauline  in  Racine's 

M 


178  NOTES. 

Polyeucte,  a.  role  so  extremely  difficult  that  it  had  not  been 
attempted  for  22  years,  was  generally  considered  deficient  in 
the  pathos,  gentleness,  grace  and  innocent  simplicity  of 
Racine's  famous  heroine  ;  her  rendition  too  of  Le  Brun's 
Marie  Stuart,  though  occasionally  extremely  powerful,  and 
afterwards  immensely  improved,  compared  very  unfavorably 
with  the  well-remembered  performance  of  Uuchesnois  in  the 
same  character.  Her  first  tour  in  the  provinces,  however,  taken 
at  her  father's  instigation,  was  extremely  successful,  particularly 
in  a  pecuniary  point  of  view. 

In  1 841  Mademoiselle  Rachel,  being  of  age,  was  made 
societaire,  or  associate  of  the  Theatre-Frangais ,  with  a  full 
share,  a  salary  of  60  thousand  francs  a  year,  and  three  months' 
conge,  or  summer  recess,  worth  at  least  30  thousand  more  :  total, 
a  salary  equal  to  that  paid  to  the  Prime  Minister  of  France. 
Neither  her  fellow-actors  nor  the  Parisians  generally,  hked  the 
way  she  spent  these  conges  ;  she  seemed  to  be  in  a  hurry,  they 
said,  to  run  off  and  very  slow  to  return  ;  she  barely  acted  twice 
a  week  in  Paris,  but  four  or  five  times  a  week  in  the  provinces ; 
instead  of  benefiting  her  health,  she  was  exhausting  her  strength, 
etc.,  —  consequently  her  first  appearances  in  September,  instead 
of  arousing  hearty  applause,  were  always  received  in  cold  stern 
silence.  This  year  she.  visited  England,  where  her  reception 
was  a  perfect  ovation  ;  she  was  presented  by  Queen  Victoria 
with  a  beautiful  bracelet  bearing  both  their  names  beautifully 
set  in  precious  stones.  She  resumed  her  old  parts  at  the  F7'a7t- 
(ais  with  great  success,  her  triumph  in  Marie  Stuart  being  in- 
tensified by  the  terrific  vehemence  by  which  she  crushed  for- 
ever a  poor  rival  actress  that  had  dared  to  appear  before  her  as 
Queen  Elizabeth. 

In  1842  she  attempted  Xiniene  in  Pierre  Corneille's  Cid,  and 
the  Ariadne  of  Thomas  Corneille  without  much  success.  In 
1843  she  attempted  Racine's  Phl'dre,  but  it  took  eleven  years 
of  hard  and  conscientious  study  to  bring  that  finest,  but  most 
difficult  of  characters  to  perfection.  In  this  year  too  she  ap- 
peared in  Judith,  a  tragedy  written  expressly  for  her  by  Madame 
de  Girardin,  but  the  play  was  not  a  good  one,  and  whatever 


RACHEL.  179 

admiration  Rachel  excited  was  mainly  due  to  her  superb  cos- 
tume, a  magnificent  creation  of  Chasscriau.  But  her  visit  to 
the  south  of  France  created  a  porfect y«r<7r<?,  one  night's  receiptk 
at  the  Marseilles  Theatre  reaching  the  unheard  of  sum  of  16 
hundred  dollars. 

In  1844  her  new  characters  were  still  failures,  neither  her 
Berenice  of  Racine,  her  habelle  in  Corneille's  Don  Sancho  of 
Art-agon,  nor  her  Catharine  II.  of  Romand  attracting  much 
attention;  but,  as  usual,  her  conge  produced  a  great  sum  of 
money,  8  thousand  dollars  being  obtained  by  six  representations 
in  Belgium. 

In  1845  her  success  as  Virgime,  her  new  part,  in  Latour  de  St. 
Ybar's  tragedy  was  complete  ;  she  seemed  to  feel  at  last  that  for 
some  time  her  glory  had  been  on  the  wane ;  whether  through 
her  own  fault  or  not,  her  sunlight  had  been  paling ;  if  she  failed 
again  she  would  have  probably  quitted  the  stage  forever.  For- 
tunately the  play  exactly  suited  her  peculiar  powers ;  she  re- 
sponded with  all  her  grandeur  to  the  emergency,  and  her  success 
was  most  triumphant.  Her  Phedre  too  was  greatly  improved, 
but  her  heroic  attempt  to  resuscitate  Voltaire's  wretched  tragedy 
of  Electra  ended  in  complete  failure. 

In  1846  an  attempt  was  made  to  restore  in  all  its  glory  the 
resplendent  character  of  Joan  of  Arc  to  the  French  stage  by  re- 
viving Soume's  tragedy  of  the  name,  but  the  play  was  so  poor 
that  even  Rachel's  genius  could  not  keep  it  alive.  Her  usual 
summer  trip,  this  year  to  Holland  and  England,  was  pecuniarily 
as  remunerative  as  ever,  but  it  fatigued  her  so  much  that  she 
was  unable  to  present  herself  at  the  Theatre- Frangais  in  Sep- 
tember. On  being  remonstrated  with,  she  sent  in  her  resigna- 
tion, probably  to  frighten  the  management  into  better  terms,  as 
she  was  well  aware  that  it  was  only  a  ten  year  societaire  that 
had  the  privilege  of  resigning,  and  even  then  a  year's  notice 
should  be  given  beforehand.  The  quarrel,  however,  was  healed 
up  for  a  time,  and  Rachel's  new  rendition  of  Phedre  was  pro- 
nounced to  be  almost  perfection.  Never  before  had  her  audi- 
ence exhibited  greater  delight,  "  She  is  a  soul  of  fire  in  an 
envelope  of  gauze  !  "  exclaimed  one  of  her  admirers  that  even- 


l8o  NOTES. 

ing,  the  young  Bey  of  Tunis  witnessing  her  performance  for 
the  first  time. 

In  1847  her  creation  of  Athalie  in  Racine's  fine  tragedy, 
though  a  character  not  quite  suited  to  her  powers,  gave  great 
satisfaction  to  the  Parisians,  Louis  Phihppe  and  the  whole  royal 
family  honoring  it  with  their  presence  and  warmest  approbation 
Her  success  in  Madame  de  Girardin's  tragedy  of  Cleopatre  was 
also  quite  decided,  but  suddenly  in  the  midst  of  her  triumphs 
illness  attacked  her  of  so  serious  a  nature  as  to  keep  her  off  the 
stage  for  three  months. 

She  was  hardly  recovered  when  the  Revolution  of  1848  broke 
out,  depriving  poor  old  Louis  Phihppe  of  the  throne  on  which 
the  Revolution  of  1830  had  set  him.  All  Paris,  mad  with  ex- 
citement, cried  out  that  the  days  of  real  liberty  had  come  at 
last.  Some  were  enthusiastic  enough  to  adopt  the  red  flag  of 
revolution  for  the  national  flag  of  France.  "  No  !  "  cried  Lamar- 
tine,  on  that  day  certainly  the  savior  of  his  country ;  "  the  tri- 
color has  borne  our  liberty  and  our  glory  around  the  world  ;  the 
red  flag,  saturated  in  our  own  people's  blood,  has  only  gone 
around  the  Champ  de  Mars  !  "  In  this  excited  state  of  men's 
minds  the  Theatre- Frangais,  now  the  Theatre  de  la  Republique , 
was  thrown  open  on  certain  nights  to  the  people.  Nothing 
short  of  Corneille's  grand  tragedy  of  Horace  could  be  listened 
to,  and  Rachel,  catching  the  infection,  played  Camille  with  a  fire 
and  energy  never  before  surpassed.  But  she  did  not  stop  here. 
As  if  driven  utterly  frantic  by  the  startling  events  of  the  day, 
some  demon  possessed  her  to  chant  the  Marseillaise,  with  flag 
and  orchestral  accompaniment,  to  houses  already  so  infuriated 
as  to  be  capable  of  committing  the  savagest  excesses.  Her 
performance  was  simply  terrific.  She  declaimed  the  song  of 
vengeance  with  all  the  enthusiasm  that  the  most  ferocious  of 
the  men  of  '92  could  have  desired.  Fortunately  the  days  of  the 
bloody  guillotine  were  gone ;  murderous  assassins  were  no 
onger  in  the  ascendancy  ;  the  "  war-cry  of  Cain  "  therefore  did 
very  little  of  the  harm  it  was  capable  of  producing.  But  the 
cooler  heads  of  France  were  rather  indignant  at  the  sight  of 
genius  allowing  itself  to  be  driven  mad  by  a  love  of  admiration. 


RACHEL.  '  l8l 

and  doing  its  best  to  produce  a  state  of  things  which  the  bravest 
heart  could  not  contemplate  without  horror. 

Lucrece,  another  "  liberty  "  play,  was  next  brought  out  before 
a  "  free  "  house,  and  extremely  well  received,  Rachel,  as  usual, 
chanting  the  Marseillaise  every  evening,  and  grandly  raising 
the  flag  ;  the  chorus  was  regularly  taken  up  by  fifty  pupils  of 
the  Conservatoire,  and  banners  were  waved,  bells  rung,  drums 
beaten,  guns  fired,  and  even  cannon  were  brought  in  to  heighten 
the  effect  of  the  last  stanza.  The  state  of  mind  in  which  the 
bewildered  audience  at  last  left  the  building  may  be  conceived, 
but  can  hardly  be  described. 

Such  things,  of  course,  could  not  last  long ;  they  soon  pall 
even  on  the  most  enthusiastic.  At  one  of  these  "  free  nights  " 
in  April,  besides  the  regular  government  officials,  hardly  any- 
body was  present ;  the  ouvriers  and  students  were  very  few,  and 
no  woman  was  at  all  to  be  seen  ;  Phedre  was  heavy  ;  La  Mar- 
seillaise was  the  only  attraction,  and  even  that  could  not  draw 
a  quarter  house. 

On  Rachel's  return  from  her  trip  through  the  provinces,  which, 
as  usual,  was  perfectly  successful,  the  farce  of  resignation  was 
played  again,  and  with  such  satisfaction  as  to  obtain  her  a  three 
months'  intermission,  in  spite  of  a  remonstrating  management 
and  an  exceedingly  impatient  public. 

Her  reappearance,  however,  in  1849  ^^  Andromache  in  Ra- 
cine's tragedy,  was  universally  allowed  to  be  a  magnificent  per- 
formance, Louis  Napoleon,  President  of  the  Repubhc,  being 
one  of  her  warmest  applauders,  and  Rachel  was  once  more  as 
great  a  favorite  as  ever.  This  was  the  era  of  the  episode  of 
Adrienne  Lecouvreur,  so  charmingly  related  by  our  author,  and 
which  ended  in  her  complete  triumph  in  the  new  and  untried 
rnJj?  of  modern  drama.  Even  her  first  performance  was  very 
pleasing,  especially  in  the  fourth  and  fifth  acts.  Her  regular 
quarrel  with  the  Theatre- Fran^ais  was  again  renewed  ;  this  time 
it  was  brought  to  court,  and  its  revelations  gave  rise  to  a  great 
deal  of  talk ;  it  was  decided  in  her  favor ;  she  gained  her  point, 
an  extension  of  her  conge,  the  object  she  had  been  aiming  at 
for  years. 
16 


I82  •  NOTES. 

In  1850  she  failed  in  Dumas's  Mademoiselle  de  Belle  Me,  as 
might  have  been  expected,  but  as  Tisbe  in  Victor  Hugo's  Tyrant 
of  Padua  she  completely  retrieved  herself  in  spite  of  the  vivid 
memories  of  the  all-accomplished  Mars.  Her  conge  of  this 
year,  lasting  four  months,  was  devoted  to  England  and  Prussia, 
with  what  success  may  be  judged  from  the  fact  that  one  night 
she  was  called  before  the  curtain  twenty-one  times ! 

In  1 85 1  her  new  play  Valeria,  written  expressly  for  her  glory 
by  Maquet  and  Lacroix,  excited  very  little  enthusiasm,  but  her 
conge,  extended  to  nearly  six  months,  permitted  her  to  visit 
nearly  all  Europe  from  London,  by  Brussels  to  Berlin,  Vienna, 
Venice,  Rome  and  Naples,  returning  by  Marseilles.  Regarding 
her  visit  to  Rome,  the  following  curious  anecdote  went  the  rounds 
of  the  papers : 

Meeting  the  Holy  Father  in  the  Vatican  gardens  one  day,  she 
threw  herself  on  her  knees  before  him,  and  avowed  her  firm 
resolve  to  be  a  Christian.  On  her  return  to  her  hotel,  she  re- 
mained for  some  time  silent,  walking  nervously  up  and  down 
the  room,  with  knitted  brow  and  agitated  gestures.  When  she 
spoke  at  last  before  her  sisters  and  friends,  it  was  to  utter  ejacu- 
lations of  admiration  and  awe.  To  the  questions  addressed  to 
her  she  returned  no  direct  answer,  only  exclaiming  in  broken, 
disjointed  phrases  :  "  Yes  !  This  is  the  true  faith  !  This  is  the 
God-inspired  creed  !  None  other  could  have  accomphshed  such 
works  !     Truly  I  will  be  one  of  them  yet !  " 

She  had  been  often  before  heard  to  express  a  desire  to  receive 
baptism  from  the  hands  of  Pius  the  Ninth,  but  she  was  too 
perfect  an  actress  to  expect  that  her  sincerity,  even  in  the  most 
serious  matters,  should  pass  unquestioned. 

In  1852  her  new  piece  Diane,  a  tame  tragedy  by  Augier,  did 
not  make  much  impression,  and  her  attempt  to  revive  Louise 
de  Lignerolles  by  Legouve  and  Dinaux,  Mademoiselle  Mars's 
great  creation,  was  little  short  of  a  complete  failure.  The  state 
of  her  health  probably  disabled  her  from  giving  these  new  roles 
the  attention  they  required.  "  I  am  far  from  strong,"  she  writes 
at  this  time  to  a  friend.  "  The  public,  it  is  true,  the  footlights. 
Father  Corneille,  even  my  costume,  give  me  fictitious  strength 


RACHEL.  183 

enoujrh  to  enable  mc  to  get  through  my  part;  that  done,  I  re- 
lapse into  powcrlcssness,  and  often  remain  sunk  in  melancholy 
until  my  next  performance."  In  spite  of  her  weakness,  how- 
ever, the  summer  found  her  at  Potsdam,  performing  Camille 
before  the  King  of  Prussia,  the  Czar  of  Russia,  and  princes, 
princesses,  ambassadors,  ministers,  and  so  forth,  innumerable. 
The  presents  she  received  on  the  occasion  amounted  to  some- 
thing fabulous.  A  rest  for  a  few  months  in  the  fall  seems  to 
have  completely  re-established  her,  the  sight  of  the  crowned 
heads  probably  entrancing  her  into  new  life. 

In  1853  her  performance  of  Madafne  de  Blossac  in  Madame 
de  Girardin's  Juidy  Tartiife  was  considered  one  of  her  best  cre- 
ations though  she  disliked  the  part  exceedingly ;  she  reconciled 
herself  to  it,  however,  because  her  old  professor  Samson  took 
the  part  of  the  Dtike  d' Estigny ,  and  both  played  extremely 
well.  She  took  a  short  conge,  but  early  in  the  fall  her  lon.g 
planned  intention  of  spending  a  winter  in  Russia  was  publicly 
announced.  The  Emperor,  the  Minister  of  State,  the  manage- 
ment had  allowed  it ;  probably  not  being  able  to  prevent  it,  they 
let  her  have  her  own  way ;  in  return  for  the  favor  she  was  to 
devote  to  Paris  her  six  months'  conge.  This  leads  us  to  hei 
new  trouble,  alluded  to  already  in  our  little  sketch  of  Legouve  ; 
a  short  account  of  it  may  give  an  idea  of  the  lofty  way  in  which 
she  treated  everybody,  particularly  authors,  with  whom  she  had 
any  dealings. 

In  1852,  complying  with  her  positive  request,  Legouve  had 
written  Medea  expressly  for  Rachel's  style  and  qualities,  being 
short  enough  to  be  learned  without  much  difficulty,  and  so  con- 
structed as  to  keep  her  almost  constantly  on  the  stage.  It  was 
read  in  her  own  salon  before  the  most  distinguished  wit  and 
fashion  of  Paris,  who  applauded  it  heartily,  the  hostess  herself 
manifesting  considerable  enthusiasm.  It  had  been  even  re- 
hearsed twice  in  the  theatre  and  publicly  announced  for  the  fall 
of  1853,  when  Rachel  suddenly  acquainted  "Legouve  with  her  con- 
templated visit  to  Russia,  hoping  that  under  the  circumstances  he 
would  excuse  her  temporary  breach  of  contract,  and  promising 
her  immediate  attention  to  Medea  the  instant  she  should  return. 


1 84  NOTES. 

Legouve,  of  course,  would  not  interpose  the  slightest  obstacle 
to  Mademoiselle's  departure. 

Her  appearance  in  St.  Petersburg,  where  she  gave  twenty- 
eight  representations,  Adrienne  being  the  favorite,  was  a  con- 
tinuous triumph,  and  at  Moscow  it  was  just  the  same.  Besides 
her  share  of  the  receipts,  at  least  60  thousand  dollars,  her  pres- 
ents in  the  shape  of  furs,  diamonds,  rings,  bracelets,  etc.,  were 
beyond  computation.  It  was  just  before  the  breaking  out  of 
the  Crimean  War,  so  that  it  is  only  the  reader  who  remembers 
the  siege  of  Sebastopol  (1854-5)  that  may  also  remember  read- 
ing the  following  anecdote  in  the  papers  of  the  time. 

After  a  grand  dinner  offered  to  the  great  French  tragedienne 
by  the  officers  of  some  regiment,  one  of  the  gay  militaires, 
.dreaming  of  another  occupation  of  Paris,  cried  out  laughingly 
to  their  departing  guest : 

"Not  adieu!  Mademoiselle,  only  au  revoir!  We  hope  to 
see  you  soon  in  the  gay  capital,  where  we  shall  be  happy  to 
drink  your  health  in  the  best  wines  of  France  !  " 

"  We  shall  be  delighted  to  welcome  you,  gentlemen,"  was 
Rachel's  ready  reply,  "  only  I  'm  afraid  not  with  our  best  wines. 
France  is  not  rich  enough  to  give  Champagne  to  her  pris- 
oners! " 

The  success  of  her  Russian  expedition  was  so  enormous  that 
it  probably  excited  the  idea  of  making  a  similar  raid  on  another 
great  country  —  North  America.  Her  first  act  on  her  return,  at 
least,  was  to  send  in  her  final  resignation,  which  she  was  now 
competent  to  do  ;  and  her  second  was  to  announce  to  Legouve 
her  determination  not  to  play  Medea.  Legouve  threatened  the 
law,  and  Rachel,  seeing  he  was  in  earnest,  promised  faithfully 
to  play  it  in  the  fall. 

The  wanderer's  reception  in  Paris,  as  usual  freezing  and  se- 
vere at  first,  as  usual  ended  in  the  wildest  enthusiasm.  Every- 
body instantly  saw  what  an  extraordinary  improvement  had 
been  wrought  in  her  by  her  trip  to  Russia.  Her  performance 
there,  in  fact,  before  a  people  who  understood  her  language 
very  imperfectly,  had  taught  her  how  to  obtain  applause  by 
another  art — pantomime.     Without  saying  a  word  she  could 


RACHEL.  185 

make  herself  almost  as  interesting  as  when  she  spoke ;  she 
absolutely  incarnated  her  part ;  no  matter  what  else  was  going 
on,  as  long  as  she  continued  on  the  stage  she  attracted  every 
eye  with  irresistible  power.  Her  performance  of  Phedre  that 
night  was  nothing  short  of  absolute  perfection.  This  year  she 
also  signalized  by  helping  to  celebrate  in  a  worthy  manner  the 
birthdays  of  the  two  great  men,  Corneille  and  Racine,  to  whom 
the  actors  of  France  are  so  much  indebted.  Nothing  could  sur- 
pass the  grandeur  of  her  Camille  or  her  Phedre  on  these  two 
famous  days. 

The  other  parts,  Marie  Stuart  in  particular,  by  which  she 
entered  on  the  fall  and  winter  campaign,  also  showed  decided 
improvement,  but  Legouve  was  compelled  to  remind  her  of  her 
promise.  Still  refusing  to  play  Medea,  the  case  was  tried  in  the 
courts  and  for  the  moment  became  the  talk  of  all  Europe.  As 
she  was  clearly  in  the  wrong,  the  judges  could  not  help  decid- 
ing against  her,  ordering  her  to  pay  by  way  of  damages  200 
francs  a  day  until  she  should  play  the  piece.  Even  this  decision 
she  contrived  to  elude,  and  finally  settled  the  matter  by  paying 
$1000,  a  sum  which  Legouve  immediately  made  over  to  two 
societies  established  for  the  relief  of  distressed  literary  men. 

But  Legouve  soon  had  his  vengeance,  if  he  desired  any.  In 
Rosetnonde,  another  play  written  expressly  for  her,  containing 
every  requisite  she  desired,  being  short,  easily  gotten  up,  and 
keeping  her  before  the  audience  all  the  time,  she  suffered  a 
most  signal  failure.  The  Czaritte  also,  written  for  her  by  Scribe, 
was  dropped  after  a  few  unsatisfactory  nights.  Such  failures, 
due  altogether  to  her  own  want  of  taste  or  judgment,  not  only 
soured  her  temper  but  considerably  irritated  the  public  against 
their  former  idol.  This  state  of  the  Parisian  mind  was  shown 
particularly  by  the  reception  accorded  to  the  famous  Ristori, 
who  visited  the  French  capital  in  May  of  this  year  (1854)  and 
was  greeted  by  an  exceedingly  flattering  welcome.  The  Pari- 
sians probably  wanted  the  kind  of  variety  that  the  illustrious 
Italian  actress  could  just  give  them.  The  union  she  so  well 
represented  of  a  tender,  dreamy,  poetic  nature  combined  with 
electric  passion  and  splendid  intelligence,  together  with  her 
16* 


1 86  NOTES. 

well  known  noble  and  generous  character,  took  all  hearts  com- 
pletely by  storm. 

Rachel  had  no  notion  of  surrendering  without  a  struggle. 
She  did  everything  in  her  power  to  win  back  her  subjects* 
former  allegiance.  She  appeared  almost  every  night  in  June. 
She  played  all  her  best  parts  in  her  best  style.  But  the  old  en- 
thusiasm was  painfully  lacking  on  the  part  of  the  audience.  The 
town  rang  every  day  with  tributes  to  the  beauty,  the  simplicity, 
the  great  talents  of  her  illustrious  rival.  Her  resolution  was  in- 
stantly taken.  Whatever  hesitation  she  might  have  entertained 
before  soon  came  to  an  end.  Towards  the  close  of  July  she 
left  Paris  on  her  ill-starred  trip  to  America. 

Her  own  idea  in  this  may  have  been  to  punish  the  capricious 
Parisians ;  the  idea  certainly  entertained  by  her  family  was  to 
gain  sudden  and  princely  fortunes  by  laying  under  contribution 
the  great  Republic  of  the  West.  The  generous  Yankees  had 
showered  at  least  240  thousand  golden  dollars  on  Jenny  Lind  ; 
why  not  shower  500  thousand  on  Rachel  ?  Of  this  sum  Rachel 
was  to  get  the  half;  of  the  other  half  her  sisters  were  to  receive 
a  goodly  share ;  and  the  remainder,  after  paying  expenses,  was 
to  belong  to  her  brother.  She  was  not  of  course  without  friends 
who  told  her  that  such  dreams  were  visionary  ;  that,  while  a 
singer  or  a  dancer  is  at  home  everywhere,  a  great  tragic  actress 
even  in  her  own  country  can  be  relished  only  by  a  few ;  that 
democratic  America  should  not  be  measured  by  aristocratic  Eng- 
land where  even  the  middle  classes  are  generally  well  acquainted 
with  the  French  language  ;  that  her  brother  Raphael,  an  igno- 
rant and  inexperienced  youth,  could  not  be  compared  for  an 
instant  with  that  emperor  of  managers,  the  all-accomplished 
Barnum,  etc.,  etc.  All  this  was  no  doubt  perfectly  true.  Still 
it  did  not  shake  her  confidence  in  America.  In  a  pecuniary- 
sense  she  was  probably  quite  right.  America  is  a  great  country. 
What  it  is  capable  of  doing  nobody  can  tell  till  the  time  comes. 

Her  stay  of  two  weeks  in  London  was  exceedingly  brilliant, 
but  she  had  never  met  anything  in  London  or  anywhere  else 
equal  to  her  reception  in  New  York  on  Sept.  3,  1855,  where  the 
magnificent  sum  of  ^-5200  was  received  on  her  opening  night. 


RACHEL,  \%J 

Though  this  was  Httle  more  than  one-half  of  Jenny  Lind's 
famous  greeting,  yet,  being  freely  given  and  without  any  clap- 
trap or  humbug  employed  to  obtain  it,  it  was  far  from  discourag- 
ing. In  Les  Horaces  she  had  made  her  debut,  but  Phedre,  and 
Adrienne  also  brought  overflowing  houses  ;  the  latter,  being  the 
favorite,  was  given  several  times,  its  melodramatic  character 
catching  the  eye  better  than  the  cold  classic  drama  where  the 
entrance  to  the  soul  is  mainly  through  the  ear. 

But  in  the  midst  of  all  this  glory  the  fell  disease,  consump- 
tion, which  had  been  threatening  Rachel  so  long  and  of  which 
her  favorite  sister  had  already  died,  at  last  began  to  show  it- 
self with  the  most  alarming  symptoms.  Unacquainted  with  the 
treacherous  character  of  the  American  climate,  she  had  at- 
tended some  Hebrew  festival  on  a  beautiful  September  day, 
clad  in  a  light  summer  dress  ;  a  sudden  fall  of  temperature  in 
the  evening  gave  her  a  cold  chill  from  which  she  never  re- 
covered. An  ill-advised  request  from  her  admirers  did  not 
improve  the  delicate  condition  of  her  lungs.  Remembering  the 
intense  enthusiasm  she  had  excited  by  singing  the  Marseillaise 
m.  Paris  in  1848,  they  insisted  on  her  repeating  it  in  New  York 
in  1856!  Times,  places,  and  circumstances  were  a.11  changed. 
Besides,  she  was  suffering  severely  from  her  cold.  No  matter : 
the  public  insisted  and  it  had  to  be  done.  She  sang  the  Marr 
seillaise,  chanted  it  rather,  and  curiosity  increased  the  receipts 
for  some  time  by  about  a  thousand  dollars  a  night. 

Her  visit  to  Boston  did  her  health  no  good,  but  her  success 
there  was  far  more  brilliant  than  in  New  York,  her  last  night 
especially  being  a  great  success,  many  of  the  Harvard  boys 
coming  on  the  stage  as  "  supes  "  to  have  a  good  look  at  the 
famous  tragedienne  as  she  chanted  the  Marseillaise.  On  her 
return  to  New  York  she  gave  performances  every  second  night 
for  nearly  two  weeks  to  very  good  houses.  So  far,  indeed,  her 
pecuniary  success  had  been  quite  satisfactory ;  before  starting 
for  Philadelphia  she  h'ad  sent  as  much  as  60  thousand  dollars 
to  France,  but  her  cough  was  decidedly  worse. 

On  a  cold  raw  November  evening,  the  19th,  she  made  her 
first  and  last  appearance  in  the  Walnut  Street  theatre,  Philadel- 


1 88  NOTES, 

phia,  in  her  favorite  character  of  Camille.  By  some  mismanage- 
ment the  house  had  not  been  warmed  !  Whoever  the  culprit 
was,  he  certainly  shortened  the  days  of  poor  Rachel.  As  she 
sat,  shivering  in  her  shawl,  waiting  in  the  slips  for  her  turn  to 
come  on  the  stage,  her  hacking  cough  was  painful  to  hear. 
Next  day  she  was  unable  to  rise,  and  the  doctors  instantly 
ordered  her  off  to  a  warmer  climate. 

She  moved  slowly  to  Charleston,  where  her  physician  en- 
joined a  state  of  absolute  repose  for  at  least  six  months  :  noth- 
ing else  could  save  her ;  but,  feeling  a  little  stronger,  with  her 
well-known  obstinacy  and  reckless  disregard  of  consequences, 
she  played  Adrienne  with  extraordinary  force  and  pathos  on 
December  17,  for  the  last  time  in  America,  for  the  last  time  on 
earth. 

Her  voyage  to  Havana  brought  no  improvement,  greatly  to 
the  disappointment  of  the  enthusiastic  Cubans  who  were  long- 
ing to  give  her  the  solidest  proofs  of  their  profound  appreciation. 
Absolute  rest  being  now  a  matter  of  necessity,  on  the  28th  of 
January  she  returned  to  France.  As  a  money  speculation,  her 
trip  had  been,  as  far  as  it  went,  highly  successful,  her  forty -two 
performances  having  produced  on  an  average  between  3  and  4 
thousand  dollars  each.  But  it  had  ruined  her  health  forever. 
This  was  plain  to  everybody  but  herself.  Henceforth  life !  life  ! 
was  her  only  cry.  The  spring  and  summer  she  spent  at  a 
friend's  house  on  the  Seine  twenty  or  thirty  miles  west  of  Paris ; 
the  winter  she  passed  in  Egypt.  In  May,  1857,  she  returned  to 
France,  and  in  September  started  for  Cannet  on  the  Mediter- 
ranean shores.  Our  author,  with  whom  she  had  long  since 
become  quite  reconciled,  has  already  described  one  of  the 
scenes  of  her  last  illness.  After  much  suffering  she  died  with- 
out a  sigh  on  Jan.  3,  1858,  in  the  presence  of  her  sister  Sarah 
and  some  members  of  a  Jewish  synagogue  summoned  at  the 
last  moment. 

It  was  said  in  the  papers  of  the  time  that  she  died  a  Catholi'-, 
but  of  this  there  seems  to  be  no  stronger  evidence  than  that 
during  her  long  illness  she  had  constantly  worn  on  her  bosom 
an  image  of  the  Blessed  Virgin  and  that  her  favorite  reading 


RACHEL.  189 

book,  as  long  as  she  could  read  at  all,  had  been  the  "  Imitation 
of  Christ." 

Our  sketch  of  Rachel  has  been  already  too  long,  but  the  fol- 
lowing account  of  her  debut  in  her  favorite  part  Camille  may 
not  prove  uninteresting.  It  is  Janin,  the  "Prince  of  Critics," 
who  tells  us  how  the  doors  of  the  Theatre- Fran^-ais  came  first 
to  be  opened  to  its  future  imperious  queen. 

"  In  the  summer  of  1838,  some  half-dozen  persons  had  as- 
sembled in  the  darkened  theatre,  glad  to  escape  the  blaze  of  the 
noonday  sun,  but  anxious  to  get  through  the  wearisome  task 
before  them  —  that  of  hearing  for  the  hundredth  time  perhaps 
the  finest  poetry  in  the  French  language  marred  by  the  wretched 
delivery  of  a  new  claimant  for  the  three  debuts  granted  to  those 
deemed  worthy,  the  judges  being  to  decide  whether  the  public 
should  be  allowed  to  experience  the  entiui  which  they  them- 
selves had  tested. 

"  The  appearance  of  the  neophyte  was  not  prepossessing. 
Scant,  mean  apparel,  a  pale  face  and  a  meagre  figure,  be- 
tokened a  childhood  spent  amidst  the  want  and  privations 
attendant  on  poverty,  and  gave  the  idea  that  at  that  very  mo- 
ment the  girl  might  be  suffering  from  hunger.  What  could  be 
hoped  from  such  a  source?  Who  could  have  ventured  to 
prophesy  that  the  shadow  before  them  was  the  reality  and  the 
life  —  the  resurrection  of  the  art ;  that  the  gruff  but  weak  voice 
was  to  say  to  the  slumbering  poets  '  Arise  and  follow  me ! ' 
The  assembled  judges  were  there  as  a  matter  of  form,  to  get 
through  an  indispensable  task,  and  not  from  any  conviction  of 
its  use,  for  they  had  ceased  to  believe  in  the  return  of  the  Tragic 
Muse,  who  had  fled  away  long  since,  bearing  in  the  folds  of  her 
tunic  her  last  representatives.  Talma  and  Duchesnois. 

"  The  girl  came  forward  but,  contrary  to  all  expectations,  she 
did  not,  with  frantic  gestures,  bawling  voice,  and  time-conse- 
crated emphasis,  give  the  well-known 

Rome !  I'unique  objet !  de  mon  ressentiment ! 

But  with  eyes  that  suddenly  gleamed  like  living  coals  in  their 
dark  orbs,  she  uttered  in  a  low,  deep,  firm  tone,  as  though 


1 90  NOTES. 

speaking  to  herself,  words  that  really  doomed  the  proud  city  t« 
destruction  : 

Rome,  I'unique  objet  de  mon  ressentiment. 

"  It  was  evident  that  this  was  no  mere  transitory  anger,  no 
burst  of  evanescent  fury.  There  was  a  depth  of  passion,  of 
concentrated,  earnest,  implacable  resentment,  the  more  fearful 
as  it  was  not  violently  demonstrative  ;  indeed  there  was  hardly 
a  gesture ;  but,  as  she  proceeded  in  those  terrific  anathemas,  the 
impression  on  the  hearers  was  that  made  by  the  approaching 
storm  —  at  first  low  and  distant,  but  coming  nearer  and  nearer 
at  every  fearful  peal,  and  finally  bursting  over  their  heads, 
scattering  ruin  and  destruction.  Each  of  the  astonished  judges 
looked  at  his  neighbor's  face  to  read  his  thoughts.  The  wisest 
deemed  the  thing  accidental,  a  freak  of  chance.  None  there 
saw  the  signs  of  a  revolution  ;  but  all  agreed  to  give  the  girl 
the  sohcited  permission  to  play  three  times  on  the  stage  of  the 
Theatre- Fran^ais. ' ' 

Note  i6  — RISTORI  — page  13. 

Adelaide  Ristori,  Countess  of  Grillo,  was  born  in  1821  of 
poor  Italian  strolling  players,  who  made  her  take  part  in  a  play 
before  she  was  three  months  old !  At  1 5  she  entered  a  Sar- 
dinian troupe  where  Marchioni,  a  celebrated  tragic  actress,  took 
a  great  liking  to  her  and  gave  her  most  valuable  instructions. 
Her  forte  seemed  to  lie  in  comedy,  at  which  she  soon  acquired 
considerable  reputation.  Her  marriage  with  the  Marquis  de 
Grillo,  in  1847,  interrupted  her  dramatic  career  for  a  few  years, 
but  the  extraordinary  success  which  she  obtained  one  evening 
when  performing  for  some  charitable  purpose  overcame  all 
family  scruples  and  drove  her  back  to  the  stage.  War  troubles 
again  interfered  with  her  success,  but  from  1850  to  1855  she  was 
hailed  through  all  parts  of  the  Italian  peninsula  as  the  first  Ital- 
ian tragic  actress  of  the  day.  In  the  summer  of  1855,  she  made 
her  appearance  in  Paris,  when  Rachel  was  at  the  summit  of  her 
glory.  But  even  among  strangers  unacquainted  with  her  hin- 
guage  her  great  genius  was  acknowledged  and  from  the  very 
first  night  her  reception  was  most  enthusiastic.     The  French 


COLLAGE  DE  ERAXCE.  I9I 

government  made  her  the  most  brilliant  offers  to  attach  her  to 
the  Theatre- Fran(;ais,  but  she  preferred  to  remain  always  Ital- 
ian.* In  every  capital  in  Europe,  Constantinople  not  excepted, 
she  met  the  same  success.  In  1866-7,  she  visited  America, 
North  and  South,  with  a  splendid  company ;  everywhere  her  ap- 
pearance was  an  ovation.  In  1875  she  again. visited  the  United 
States,  playing  her  best  pieces  Marie  Antoi7tette ,  Queeti  Elizabeth, 
Mary  Stuart,  Pia  de  Tolomei,  and  among  the  others  the  Medea 
originally  written  by  our  author  for  Rachel,  but  which  she  had 
so  persistently  refused  to  play.  Ristori's  powerful  and  varied 
talents  are  of  an  order  altogether  different  from  Rachel's.  She 
was  just  as  remarkable  for  expansion,  brightness  and  vivacity 
as  the  French  actress  for  concentration,  gloominess  and  deep 
volcanic  emotion.  Ristori  never  had  any  trouble  in  passing 
the  same  evening  from  tragedy  to  comedy,  from  the  most  har- 
rowing drama  to  the  most  comical  farce.  In  short,  to  use 
the  words  of  a  writer  in  the  Atlantic  Motithly,  "  in  according  to 
Ristori  the  highest  order  of  dramatic  genius,  we  merely  allow 
what  has  been  decided  beyond  appeal  by  the  critical  tribunals 
of  France,  Italy,  England,  Germany  and  Spain.  What  Shake- 
speare is  among  dramatists,  Ristori  is  among  actors." 

Note  17  -COLLlfcGE  DE  FRANCE  — page  20. 

The  College  of  France,  a  famous  educational  establish- 
ment in  Paris,  was  founded  in  1530  by  Francis  I.,  with  the  title 
of  Royal  College,  its  professors  being  styled  Royal  Pleaders. 
It  has  at.  present  thirty  professors  who  deliver  courses,  open 
to  the  public,  six  months  every  year,  on  languages,  literature, 
moral  philosophy,  science,  and  law,  supplementary  courses 
being  occasionally  introduced.  It  is  generally  considered  rather 
ornamental  than  practical  as  it  holds  no  examinations  and  con- 
fers no  degrees. 

Note  18  —  GIRARDIN  —  page  22. 

Saint-Marc  Girardin  (1801-1873),  member  of  the  French 
Academy,  also  an  eminent  literateicr  and  professor.  His  lec- 
tures on  poetry  at  the  Sorbonne,  delivered  almost  uninterrupt- 


192  THE  ART  OF  READING. 

edly  for  nearly  35  years  (i 834-1 869),  were  extremely  popular, 
thanks  to  his  good  sense,  clea'ness,  moderation,  humor,  but 
particularly  to  his  extended  range  of  acquirements,  the -liter- 
atures of  all  the  most  prominent  languages  being  a  subject 
on  which  his  knowledge  was  broad  and  profound.  No  lecturer 
ever  enjoyed  steadier  popularity,  the  vast  amphitheatre  of  the 
Sorbonne,  capable  of  seating  several  thousand  auditors,  being 
always  crowded  whenever  he  spoke. 

Note  19  — SEVIGNE— page  22. 

Marie  de  Rabutin-Chantal  (1626-1696),  Marchioness  de 
Sevigne,  so  celebrated  for  her  famous  Letters,  when  only  five 
years  old  lost  both  her  parents,  but  she  received  a  most  careful 
education  through  the  care  of  her  uncle,  the  Abbe  de  Coulanges, 
who  seems  to  have  discharged  the  duties  at  once  of  thoughtful 
father  and  affectionate  mother  towards  his  orphan  niece.  Be- 
sides the  ordinary  branches  of  a  young  lady's  education,  she 
h'as  well  acquainted  with  Latin,  Italian  and  Spanish.  The 
sudden  death  of  her  husband,  the  Marquis  de  Sevigne,  a  worth- 
less spendthrift,  left  her  a  widow  at  the  age  of  twenty-five  with 
two  children,  a  son  and  a  daughter.  Her  wit,  beauty,  vivacity, 
sweet  and  kindly  nature,  together  with  a  handsome  fortune, 
brought  her  the  most  brilliant  offers  of  marriage,  but  she  steadily 
refused  them  all,  devoting  the  best  years  of  her  life  to  the  edu- 
cation of  her  children,  of  her  daughter  in  particular  whom  she 
loved  to  distraction  and  who  indeed  was  in  every  way  worthy 
of  such  fervent  affection.  She  received  the  best  society  in 
France  and  was  on  the  most  intimate  terms  with  Mesdames  de 
Longueville  and  de  Chevreuse. 

Marriage  at  last  carried  off  the  "  infinitely  dear  daughter  " 
to  a  distant  part  of  France,  and  it  is  to  the  poor  mother's  desire 
to  alleviate  the  pangs  of  separation  by  an  active  correspondence 
that  the  world  is  indebted  for  those  famous  Letters,  looked  on 
to-day  as  among  the  most  precious  monuments  of  French  liter- 
ature and  probably  the  most  highly  finished  models  in  any 
language  of  perfect  epistolary  style. 

To  the  seventieth  year  of  her  age  she  had  hardly  known  what 


MONTAIGNE.  1 93 

sickness  was,  but  after  nursing  her  daughter  successfully  through 
a  violent  attack  of  small-pox,  she  caught  that  virulent  disease 
herself,  and  died  blessing  God  that  the  mother  was  taken  away 
rather  than  the  child. 

Note  20  —  MONTAIGNE  —  page  22. 

Michel  Eyquem  de  Montaigne  (i  533-1 592),  author  of  the 
famous  Essays,  received  a  somewhat  unusual  education  in  con- 
sequence of  his  father's  peculiar  notions  on  the  subject.  "  He 
desired  me  his  son  to  relish  science  and  duty  of  my  own  free 
will  and  pleasure,  and  to  educate  my  soul  in  all  liberty  and  de- 
light, without  any  severity  or  constraint.  .  .  .  For  fear  of  dis- 
turbing my  brain  by  waking  me  suddenly  in  the  morning,  he 
caused  me  to  be  waked  by  the  sound  of  some  musical  instru- 
ment, and  I  was  never  unprovided  of  a  musician  for  that  pur- 
pose." He  was  taught  Latin  by  being  surrounded  from  his 
infancy  by  teachers  who  allowed  him  to  be  spoken  to  only  in 
that  language.  The  result  certainly  was  that  when  seven  years 
of  age  he  knew  Latin  so  well  that  even  great  professors  were 
afraid  to  speak  to  him.  His  only  story-books  were  Ovid,  Vir- 
gil, Livy,  Terence,  Plautus  and  Sallust,  so  that  as  far  as  liter- 
ature was  concerned  he  had  received  the  education  of  a  young 
Roman.  But  even  genius  requires  labor  to  solidify  it.  He  had 
never  learned  the  great  art  of  earnest  application.  What  is 
got  without  difficulty  is  hard  to  retain.  At  twenty  he  had  lost 
his  facihty  in  Latin,  and  Greek  he  could  never  learn.  His 
writing  was  so  bad  that  he  was  often  unable  to  decipher  it  him- 
self. He  could  never  learn  to  swim,  or  fence,  or  even  saddle  a 
horse  ;  he  could  never  keep  his  accounts  and  would  never  look 
at  a  book  unless  when  he  was  completely  tired  of  doing  nothing. 
In  other  words  he  never  had  a  proper  conception  of  duty,  and 
though  naturally  of  a  most  kind  and  generous  heart  he  became 
in  the  end  a  mere  literary  epicure.  "  Laziness,"  he  says,  "and 
a  love  of  liberty  have  been  always  my  predominant  qualities." 
Yet  his  Essays,  written  in  his  many  leisure  moments,  without 
order  or  plan,  or  indeed  any  apparent  object  at  all  beyond  his 
own  simple  amusement,  possess  a  charming  naturalness  and 
17  N 


194  NOTES. 

facility  of  style  combined  with  an  originality,  a  large-mindcd- 
ness,  and  a  profound  knowledge  of  human  nature,  which  no 
writer  before  or  since  has  ever  surpassed.  They  have  been  fre- 
quently translated  into  every  European  language,  and  will 
always  possess  a  strong  hold  on  mankind,  for,  though  the 
apparent  subject  of  the  book  is  the  author  himself,  every  reader 
can  see  that  the  real  theme  is  the  all-absorbing  one,  how  to  live 
well  a?td  how  to  die  well. 

"  This  imperishable  monument  at  once  of  the^soundest  reason 
and  the  happiest  genius"  says  Villemain,  "was  nothing  more 
to  Montaigne  than  a  pleasant  amusement,  a  mere  pastime  for 
his  fancy  and  his  pen.  His  inspirations,  crystallized  forever  by 
his  style,  will  be  just  as  highly  cherished  by  future  ages  as  they 
are  to-day.  What  was  his  secret  .-^  His  writings  are  himself! 
He  is  perhaps  the  only  writer  in  whom  the  author  is  never  sep- 
arated from  the  man,  so  that  he  himself  will  prove  just  as  im- 
mortal as  his  genius."  He  travelled  through  France,  Germany 
and  Italy,  less  with  a  tourist's  than  a  philosopher's  eye  as  appears 
from  his  own  Journal,  a  curious  document  which  was  not  dis- 
covered until  nearly  two  hundred  years  after  his  death.  Though 
he  lived  in  very  troublesome  times  he  was  highly  respected  by 
all  parties ;  elected  mayor  of  Bordeaux  for  several  years,  he 
discharged  his  duties  with  so  much  prudence,  firmness  and 
moderation  that  he  saved  his  city  from  many  of  the  horrors  ex 
perienced  elsewhere,  the  consequence  of  the  furious  religious 
wars  at  that  time  desolating  France. 

He  died  of  a  quinsy,  which  brought  on  a  paralysis  of  the 
tongue,  so  that  he  remained  three  days  with  all  his  senses  about 
him,  but  unable  to  utter  a  word.  His  death,  as  related  by  an 
eye-witness,  is  very  touching.  Feeling  the  approach  of  death, 
he  got  out  of  bed  and,  putting  on  his  dressing-gown,  wrote  word 
that  all  his  servants  and  others  to  whom  he  had  left  legacies 
should  be  summoned  to  his  room  ;  he  then  paid  them  the  sums 
he  had  respectively  bequeathed  them,  foreseeing  the  difficulty 
they  might  have  in  obtaining  the  amount- from  his  heirs.  Get- 
ting worse  and  worse,  he  requested  his  wife,  in  writing,  to  send 
for  some  gentlemen,  his  neighbors ;  and  when  they  were  as- 


SORBONNE,  195 

semblcd,  he  caused  mass  to  be  said  in  his  chamber.  At  the 
moment  of  the  elevation,  he  attempted  to  rise  but  could  not ; 
with  his  hands  crossed  he  fell  back  fainting,  and  in  this  act  of 
devotion  expired,  September  13,  1592,  in  the  sixtieth  year  of  his 
age,  presenting  in  his  death,  says  Pasquier,  a  fine  mirror  of  his 
soul.  His  tomb  is  still  to  be  seen  in  a  perfect  state  of  preser- 
vation in  the  College  Chapel,  Bordeaux. 

Note  21  —  SORBONNE  — page  23. 

SoRBONNE,  a  famous  educational  establishment  in  Paris, 
founded  in  1250,  and  so  called  from  its  founder  *Robert  de  Sor- 
bon,  a  learned  priest,  who  intended  it  as  the  residence  of  certain 
secular  ecclesiastics.  Here,  hving  in  common  and  provided 
with  every  necessity  of  life,  they  could  devote  themselves  to 
study  and  gratuitous  instruction.  For  four  hundred  years  the 
Sorbonne  enjoyed  a  European  reputation  and  deserved  the  name 
of  the  Permanent  Council  of  the  Gauls.  In  1789,  it  shared  the 
fate  of  the  other  ecclesiastical  establishments,  but  in  1808  the 
buildings  were  given  over  to  the  University  by  Napoleon.  Since 
1 82 1  the  Sorbonne  may  be  called  the  Parisian  seat  of  the  Uni- 
versity, where  free  courses  are  taught  by. the  most  eminent 
Professors  in  Letters,  Sciences,  and  Theology. 

Note  22  — FRENCH  ACADEMY  —page  24. 

In  1630,  Conrart,  a  literary  and  scientific  gentleman  of  Paris, 
took  much  pleasure  in  inviting  to  his  house  a  little  group  of 
friends  of  similar  tastes  as  his  own,  for  the  purpose  of  discus- 
sing congenial  subjects  together.  One  of  them,  the  Abbe  de 
Bois-robert,  happening  to  describe  some  of  these  meetings  to 
Cardinal  Richelieu,  the  great  minister  instantly  perceived  what 
good  services  might  be  rendered  to  French  literature  by  the 
voluntary  labor  of  such  enlightened  minds,  and  immediately 
offered  the  society  his  powerful  protection.  Its  constitution, 
drawn  up  in  1634,  Richelieu  strongly  recommended  to  the 
King;  and  in  1635,  the  French  Academy,  incorporated  by 
letters-patent,  held  its  regular  sessions  three  times  a  week  in  the 
Louvre,  its  list  of  forty  names,  the  limited  number,  being  soon 


lg6  NOTES. 

filled.  The  chief  great  work  of  this  illustrious  body  has  been 
a  Dictionary  of  the  French  language,  the  first  edition,  however, 
taking  no  less  than  nearly  sixty  years  to  complete,  a  slowness 
of  proceeding  which  the  wits  of  the  period  did  not  fail  to  re- 
mark. The  second  edition  appeared  in  1717,  the  third  in  1740, 
the  fourth  in  1762,  the  fifth  in  1798,  the  sixth  in  1835,  ^'^^  ^^e 
last  has  just  appeared  (1878),  edited  by  Sylvestre  de  Sacy. 
This  Dictionary  is  the  grand  and  final  authority  of  the  day  on 
the  authenticity  of  French  words  and  the  niceties  of  the  French 
language. 

The  Academy  has  rendered  another  important  service  to 
French  literature  by  rewarding  and  in  a  measure  directing  and 
guiding  the  eiforts  of  those  writers  whom  it  thinks  proper  to 
recommend  strongly  to  public  opinion.  Balzac,  a  writer  of  the 
17th  century,  first  started  the  idea  of  crowning  the  best  lite- 
rary work  by  founding  a  prize  for  religious  elogtience.  Pellison 
created  a  biennial  prize  for  poetry;  others  followed  the  good  ex- 
ample, but  the  Baron  de  Montyon  has  been  the  most  generous 
of  all  the  benefactors  of  the  Academy  by  leaving  it  the  interest 
of  ^120,000  forever,  to  be  divided  equally  between  the  author 
of  the  work  whose  influence  would  most  promote  the  welfare 
of  society,  and  the  poor  Frenchman  who  had  most  distin- 
guished himself  by  some  act  of  virtue.  These  two  are  always  the 
most  popular  of  the  prizes  distributed  every  year  in  the  Institute 
Building  at  the  annual  session  of  the  Academy  in  August.  The 
other  prizes  are  about  sixeen  in  number,  including  the  subjects  : 
eloquence,  virtue,  devotion,  heroism,  courage,  history,  literature, 
education,  translation  from  the  Latin,  historical  itivestigation, 
and  works  on  7norality ,  philology ,  the  condition  of  woman,  etc. 

Its  members  are  elected  by  secret  ballot,  and  receive  no  pay, 
the  honor  of  being  a  French  Academician  being  justly  esteemed 
one  of  the  highest  this  world  can  bestow.  The  beneficial  in- 
fluence of  this  learned  body  on  French  literature  is  undeniably 
great,  and  many  of  the  most  illustrious  names  of  France  are  found 
on  its  roll,  but  bitter  tongues  have  often  said  that  the  history  of 
the  \\st  Armchair  would  easily  eclipse  that  of  many  a  one  of 
the  immortal  40.     No  doubt  many  great  names  in  French  liter- 


SANDEAU. 


197 


atiire  are  uninscribed  in  its  books ;  to  mention  only  a  few :  Des 
Cartes,  Pascal,  Molierc,  Regnard,  Beaumarchais,  Paul  Louis 
Courier,  Balzac  (H.  de),  Bcranger,  and  Michelet,  have  not  been 
members  of  the  French  Academy. 

As  a  matter  of  curiosity,  we  here  give  the  40  names  on  the 
list  of  1877,  with  the  date  of  their  election  : 


Thiers,      

MiGNKT,      

V.  Hugo,   

noailles, • 

Desire  Nisard, 
dupanloup, 

Dh  Sacy,  

Legouve,   

Falloux,  

AUGIER,        

Laprade, 

Sandeau,  

Due  de  Broglie, 

Feuillet,  

Dufaure, 

CUVILLIER   FeURY, 

Jules  Favre,  ... 

AUTRAN,       

C.  Bernard,     ... 
Haussonville, 

Camille 


••  1833 

..  1836 

..  1841 

..  1849 

..  1850 

..  1854 

..  1854 

..  1855 

..  1856 

..  1857 

..  1858 

..  1858 

..  1862 

..  1862 

..  1863 

..  1866 

..  1867 

..  1868 

..  1868 

..  1869 

DOUCET  (1865), 


21.  Champagny, 

22.  BARBIER,      ... 

23.  Ollivier,  ... 

24.  Marmier,  ... 


1869 
1869 
1870 
1870 


25.  DauvergierdeHauranne,i87o 

26.  Due  d'Aumale,     1871 

27.  LlTTR^,         ...  1871 

28.  ROUSSET,     1871 

29.  LOM^NIE,     187I 

30.  St.  Rene  Taillandier,  1873 

31.  ViEL    CaSTEL, 1873 

32.  Mezieres, 1874 

33.  A.  Dumas  fils,      1874 

34.  Caro, 1874 

35.  Lemoinne,        1875 

36.  J.  B.  Dumas, 1875 

37.  Jules  Simon, 1875 

38.  C.  Blanc,         1876 

39.  Boissier,    1876 

40.  V.  Sardou,       1877 

Perpetual  Secretary. 


Suppressed  in  1793,  the  Academy  was  revived  in  1795  in  a 
new  form  by  the  Directory.  In  1803,  Napoleon  united  all  the 
Academies  together  under  a  new  organization,  calling  them  the 
histitut  Imperial  de  France ;  at  the  Restoration  Louis  XVIII. 
retained  the  name  InstitiU  de  France,  but  revived  the  old  title 
of  Academy  for  the  different  bodies  composing  the  institute. 
These  are  to-day  :  The  French  Academy,  The  Academy  of  Liter- 
ature, The  Academy  of  Science,  The  Academy  of  Fine  Arts, 
and  the  Academy  of  the  Moral  and  Social  Sciences. 


Note  23  —  SANDEAU  —  page  25. 

L.  S.  Jules  Sandeau  (i8io ),  novelist,  dramatic  author, 

member  of  the  French  Academy,  and  at  present  director  of  the 
17* 


198  NOTES. 

Mazarin  Library,  is  a  writer  of  the  restrained  and  tempered 
kind  who,  while  giving  full  swing  to  the  representation  of  in- 
dividual character  and  strong  passion,  never  forgets  the  great 
importance  of  an  elegant  and  correct  style.  He  shows  an  ex- 
quisite taste  in  uniting  the  pleasing  with  the  sentimental  and 
can  be  pathetic  as  often  as  he  pleases  without  ever  ceasing  to 
be  natural.  Most  of  his  novels  are  excellent,  especially  Made- 
moiselle de  la  Seigliere  (which  he  has  also  turned  into  a  brilliant 
five-act  drama).  Sacs  et  Parcketnins,  2in6. La  Maison  de  Penarvan. 
In  conjunction  with  Augier  he  has  composed  the  famous  Gendre 
de  M.  Poirier,  also  La  Pierre  de  louche  and  La  Ceiniure  Doree. 

Note  24  —  DOUCET  —  page  25. 

C.  Camille  Doucet  (1812 ),  dramatic  author,  dramatic 

critic  of  the  Monileur  Parisien,  director  of  the  national  theatres, 
and  member  of  the  French  Academy,  has  written  many  com- 
edies, mostly  in  verse,  which  have  been  represented  with  much 
success  at  the  Theatre- Fran^ais.  He  treats  his  subjects  with 
skill  and  expresses  his  ideas  with  ease  and  elegance.  He  is  at 
present  (1879)  ^^  perpetual  secretary  of  the  French  Academy. 

Note  25  —  VIENNET  —  page  26. 

J.  Pons  G.  Viennet  (i  777-1 868),  soldier  of  the  Revolution, 
poet,  man  of  letters,  politician.  Deputy,  Peer  of  France,  and 
member  of  the  French  Academy,  lived  through  ten  revolutions, 
but  believed  only  in  the  first.  During  his  long  and  troubled 
life  he  made  many  speeches,  read  many  discourses,  and  wrote 
an  immense  number  of  books  ;  in  spite  of  his  great  literary  in- 
dustry, however,  his  productions  were  far  more  remarkable  for 
their  quantity  than  their  quality.  His  dramatic  works,  in  which 
he  took  great  pride,  never  had  the  slightest  success.  A  violent 
and  headstrong  partisan  by  nature,  and  looking  at  everything 
with  his  own  angry  eyes,  he  often  did  more  harm  to  his  friends 
than  his  enemies.  In  1834  he  was  especially  unpopular.  "  500 
epigrams  a  year  are  launched,"  he  says  himself,  "  at  my  figure, 
my  face,  my  poetry,  my  speeches,  my  rebellious  topknot,  and 
my  green  overcoat.     I  am  the  first  butt  every  jackanapes  just 


BERSOT.  T99 

out  of  college  tries  his  hand  at ;  it  is  to  me  he  considers  it  his 
bounden  duty  to  give  the  first  kick."  His  elevation  to  the  peer- 
age in  1840  by  Louis  Philippe,  far  from  putting  an  end  to  these 
attacks,  only  redoubled  their  violence.  His  able  and  persistent 
efforts,  however,  against  what  has  been  called  the  Romantic 
school  of  literature,  opened  the  doors  of  the  French  Academy 
to  him  in  1830,  as  successor  to  the  Count  de  Segur. 

Note  26  —  BERSOT  —  page  28.  . 

P.  Ernest  Bersot  (i8i6  — -),  graduate  of  the  Normal 
School,  private  secretary  to  Minister  Cousin  in  1840,  was  ap- 
pointed professor  of  philosophy  at  Bordeaux  in  1841.  Here  his 
'  liberalism  "  embroiled  him  with  the  clergy  and  led  to  his  re- 
moval. In  1845  he  was  appointed  professor  at  Versailles,  but 
this  position  he  also  lost  in  1852  by  refusing  to  take  the  oath  to 
the  new  Constitution,  and  for  several  years  he  devoted  himself 
to  private  teaching  and  to  critical,  philosophical  and  educational 
studies.  In  1859  ^^  began  to  write  for  the  Journal  des  Debats, 
and  in  1866  he  succeeded  De  Beaumont  as  member  of  The 
Academy  of  Moral  and  Social  Sciences.  His  writings  are  of 
fhe  "liberal"  school  and  decidedly  Voltairian.  His  chief  works 
are  Mesmer  and  Anbnal  Magnetism,  Free  Philosophy ,  Litera- 
ture and  Morals,  and  several  political  pamphlets.  He  is  at 
present  the  Director  of  the  Normal  School. 

Note  27  —  M0L6  —  page  31. 

Francois  Ren6  Mol^  (i 734-1 802),  a  celebrated  comic  actor, 
and  member  of  the  Institute.  His  successful  impersonations 
were  innumerable,  his  exquisites  and  old  beaux  being  simply 
perfection.  No  greater  favorite  perhaps  appeared  on  the  Pari- 
sian stage.  In  1766  his  detention  from  the  theatre  by  a  slight 
cold  was  considered  a  public  calamity.  Bulletins  regarding  the 
state  of  his  health  were  read  every  night  in  the  theatres,  and 
every  morning  a  long  string  of  carriages  blockaded  his  door. 
His  physician  recommending  some  generous  wine  for  his  (on- 
valescence,  more  than  two  thousand  bottles  were  sent  to  his 
house  in  one  day  by  people  of  the  first  quality.     It  was  on  the 


200  NOTES. 

pompous  and  dignified  Mole  that  the  wits  of  the  day  fathered 
the  well-known  story  of  the  blank  manuscript.  An  author  gave 
him  for  examination  as  the  manuscript  of  a  play  what  was  really 
nothing  but  a  roll  of  blank  sheets.  In  a  few  weeks  Mole  re- 
turned it  with  a  polite  note  saying  the  play  was  really  pretty 
good  but  a  trifle  too  long !  It  was  also  of  Mole  that  a  young 
actress  said:  "He  is  sixty-five  at  least,  but  I  don't  know  any 
young  actor  who  can  fling  himself  at  a  lady's  feet  so  grace- 
fully." In  1795  he  was  appointed  professor  of  elocution  and 
dramatic  art  at  the  Institute,  where  he  formed  several  pupils 
who  afterwards  rose  to  great  distinction. 

Note  28  — BERRYER  — page  31. 

Pierre  Antoine  Berryer  (1790-1868),  celebrated  orator, 
first  lawyer  of  the  Parisian  bar,  chief  of  the  Bourbon  or  legitimist 
party,  brilliant  political  lecturer,  member  of  the  French  Acad- 
emy and  for  many  years  one  of  the  foremost  members  of  the 
Chamber  of  Deputies,  was  one  of  the  most  illustrious  French- 
men of  the  present  century.  Educated  by  the  Oratorians  in 
their  college  of  Juilly,  which  has  produced  so  many  eminent 
men,  young  Berryer's  inclinations  favored  the  church,  but  his 
father  wished  him  to  follow  his  own  profession,  that  of  lawyer. 
Always  the  friend  of  good  order  and  legitimate  authority,  he 
never  hesitated  to  employ  his  powerful  talents  in  behalf  of  the 
erring  when  he  thought  them  unfairly  assailed  or  treated  too 
severely.  He  had  the  courage  to  defend,  though  in  vain,  Mar 
shal  Ney  in  181 5,  and  succeeded  in  procuring  the  acquittal  of 
Cambronne.  In  1826  he  pleaded  for  Lamennais,  in  1833  foJ* 
Chateaubriand,  in  1840  for  Louis  Napoleon,  in  1858  for  Monta- 
^embert,  and  in  1861  sustained  the  Baltimore  Bonapartes  in  their 
claims  to  be  considered  the  legitimate  successors  to  Jerome 
Bonaparte.  In  1830  he  was  elected  to  the  Chamber  of  Deputies, 
and  there,  for  more  than  thirty  years,  his  voice,  boldly  pro- 
nouncing for  what  he  considered  justice  in  every  social,  polit- 
ical or  financial  question,  made  him  by  himself  a  great  power 
admired  and  respected  by  all  parties  alike.  He  ably  advocated 
the  cause  of  the  Union  in  our  Civil  War,  denounced  the  Mcx- 


TALMA.  201 

ican  Invasion,  and  helped  to  preserve  France  from  any  such 
burden  as  the  Alabama  claims.  An  uncompromising  legitimist, 
he  had  when  a  young  man  been  the  first  to  hoist  the  white  flag 
at  Rcnnes  in  1814  and  proclaim  the  deposition  of  the  first 
Napoleon.  At  the  Coup  d' Etat  in  1852  when  sixty-one  years 
of  age  he  just  as  boldly  denounced  Louis  Napoleon  and  pro- 
claimed his  deposition.  When  elected  to  the  Academy  in  1854, 
he  took  his  seat  but  refused  to  pay  the  customary  visit  to 
the  Head  of  the  State;  and,  faithful  to  the  last,  a  few  days 
before  his  death,  he  wrote  a  letter  to  the  Count  de  Chambord, 
addressing  him  as  Mofiseignetirvum  rot  (my  lord  and  my  king). 
His  funeral  was  celebrated  with  unusual  pomp  and  solemnity, 
even  the  French  Academy,  breaking  their  stringent  rule  never 
to  leave  Paris  on* such  occasions,  taking  a  very  prominent  part 
in  the  affecting  ceremony.  A  subscription  started  to  erect  a 
monument  to  his  memory  rose  in  a  few  days  to  $20,000. 

Cormenin  in  his  Oratetirs  says  of  Berryer:  "What  renders 
his  eloquence  so  effective  in  particular  is  that  from  the  first  start 
he  never  loses  sight  of  his  objective  point.  He  makes  no  brisk 
attack  on  his  enemy ;  he  begins  by  tracing  certain  lines  of  cir- 
cumvallation  around  him ;  then  dislodging  him  from  point  to 
point,  throwing  him  off  his  guard  by  masterly  movements,  and 
always  advancing,  he  at  last  suddenly  seizes  him,  envelops  him 
in  the  meshes  of  his  argumentation,  and  chokes,  smothers,  and 
strangles  him  in  its  terrible  iron  coils.  This  mode  of  attack 
can  of  course  be  attempted  only  by  experienced  hands ;  it 
would  soon  fatigue  an  audience  so  incapable  of  protracted  at- 
tention as  a  French  chamber ;  but  it  is  powerfully  sustained  and 
in  fact  rendered  invincible  by  Berryer's  majestic  presence,  his 
thrilling  voice,  his  animated  gestures,  and  the  commanding  ele- 
gance of  his  language." 

Note  29  —  TALMA  —  page  32. 

Francois  Joseph  Talma  (i 763-1 826),  the  first  tragedian  of 
his  day  and  the  regenerator  of  dramatic  art,  of  Arabian  origin 
the  son  of  a  Parisian  dentist,  received  his  education  partly  in 
Paris  and  partly  in  London.     He  oractised  dentistry  himself  foi 


202  NOTES. 

a  year  or  two,  when  he  renounced  it  for  the  stage.  Making 
his  debut  at  the  Theatre- Fra7igais  in  1787,  he  was  admitted  as- 
sociate in  1789,  when  he  at  once  began  the  reformation  of  stage 
costume  by  endeavoring  to  make  his  own  at  least  somewhat 
suitable  to  time  and  place.  Appearing  one  evening  at  rehearsal 
dressed  in  a  Roman  toga  instead  of  the  ordinary  silk  coat,  lace 
ruffles,  dress  sword,  powdered  wig,  and  cocked  hat  in  which 
classic  characters  were  played  at  the  time,  he  excited  at  once 
the  amazement  and  the  ridicule  of  the  company.  "  Talma," 
exclaimed  Mademoiselle  Contat,  the  famous  actress,  with  her 
merriest  laugh,  "  you  look  for  all  the  world  like  an  antique 
Statue  !  "  "  He  has  a  bed-sheet  on  his  shoulders  !  "  cried  Mad- 
ame Vestris.  Such  criticisms,  as  may  be  well  supposed,  had 
iittle  effect  on  his  determination;  he  persisted  in  making  cor- 
rectness of  costume  one  of  his  most  rigorous  necessities,  till  by 
degrees  the  sensible  innovation  was  at  last  universally  adopted. 
So  particular  was  he  indeed  regarding  telling  points  in  costumes 
that,  having  heard  that  some  Florentine  painter  had  given  Nero 
a  kind  of  red  cravat  which  wonderfully  contributed  to  redouble 
the  ferocity  of  the  Roman  Emperor's  facial  expression,  he 
adopted  the  idea  himself  and  produced  an  extraordinary  effect. 
During  the  empire  he  often  acted  before  royal  audiences  in  Paris 
and  elsewhere ;  even  in  London  he  had  performed  with  great 
applause  in  his  younger  days,  when  he  spoke  English  to  per- 
fection and  was  as  well  acquainted  with  Shakespeare  as  with 
Corneille.  Napoleon,  to  whom  he  had  once  lent  money  when 
a  young  man,  always  showed  him  great  friendship,  loving  to 
converse  with  him  and  often  taking  pose  lessons  from  the  ac- 
complished master.  He  even  paid  his  debts  once  or  twice,  for 
Talma,  in  spite  of  his  immense  theatrical  income,  was  always 
kept  poor  by  an  unfortunate  mania  that  possessed  him  for  build- 
ing, and  then  tearing  down  the  same  house  to  build  it  over  again. 
The  Restoration  did  not  injure  his  popularity,  the  Bourbons  lik- 
ing him  as  well  as  the  Bonapartes,  though  in  his  part  of  Sylla 
in  Jouy's  play  of  that  name  he  produced  an  entrancing  effect 
by  his  wonderful  resemblance  to  the  great  emperor.  Improving 
with  age,  some  of  his  later  characters  are  among  his  best. 


PARSE  VA  L-  GRA  ND  MA  IS  ON,  203 

When  sixty  he  played  to  Mademoiselle  Mars  in  the  comedy  of 
L Kiolc  dcs  Vicillards  with  all  the  fire  of  his  youth  and  more  of 
its  finish  ;  but  his  best  creation  was  his  last  of  all,  Charles  VI., 
in  the  tragedy  of  that  name,  played  in  1826,  the  very  year  of 
his  death.  He  is  said  to  have  created  upwards  of  seventy  char- 
acters. His  excellence  lay  in  his  great  earnestness  and  the 
wonderful  naturalness  of  his  intensest  passion.  His  friends 
claimed  for  him  the  sublimity  of  Lekain,  the  majesty  of  Larive, 
and  the  pathos  of  Monvel. 

Note  30  — PARSEVAL-GRANDMAISON— page  32. 

Francois  A.  Parseval  de  Grandmaison  (1759-1834),  a 
poet,  and  member  of  the  French  Academy.  In  1798  he  fol- 
lowed Bonaparte  to  Egypt  as  poet  of  the  expedition,  in  place 
of  Lemercier,  who  had  declined  the  perilous  honor.  His  prin- 
tipal  works.  Verses  oji  Napoleon' s  Marriage,  On  the  Birth  of  the 
King  of  Rome,  Philip  Augustus,  an  epic  poem  in  12  books,  etc., 
are  now  nearly  all  forgotten. 

Note  31  —  DUPREZ  —  page  34. 

G.  L.  DuPREZ  (1806 ),  famous  singer,  born  at  Paris,  en- 
tered the  Conservatoire  when  only  ten  years  old,  studied  after- 
wards in  Italy,  where,  in  course  of  time,  he  played  in  the  chief 
operas  of  the  day  with  great  success.  From  1837  to  1849  ^^  sang 
regularly  at  the  Grand  Opera  in  Paris,  his  best  and  most  highly 
successful  role  being  Arnold  in  William  Tell.  A  fine  tenor  voice 
rather  well  managed  than  powerful,  great  taste,  and  careful 
acting,  were  the  chief  qualities  that  recommended  Duprez  to 
the  public,  and  brought  him  an  income  of  $20,000  a  year.  He 
was  professor  at  the  Conservatoire  from  1842  to  1850,  and  after- 
wards spent  some  years  travelling  over  the  world  with  a  lyrical 
troupe.  His  operas,  of  which  he  composed  several,  have  all 
failed  to  attract  public  attention. 

Note  32  —  MALIBRAN  —  page  34. 

Maria  Felicita  Garcia  (1808-1836),  one  of  the  first  singers 
of  the  present  centui-y,  born  in  Paris,  daughter  of  Manuel  Garcia, 


204  NOTES. 

the  famous  singer,  singing-master,  and  the  composer  of  ThA 
Caliph  of  Bagdad,  etc  ,  made  her  debut  at  the  Itahan  Opera  in 
London  (1825)  with  the  most  signal  success.  Her  father  remov- 
ing to  New  York  during  the  same  year,  she  initiated  with  great 
eclat  the  first  Itahan  Opera  ever  given  in  the  United  States,  In 
1826  she  married  a  French  merchant  of  New  York,  reputed  to 
be  very  wealthy,  but  who  failed  in  business  within  less  than  a 
year.  Indignant  at  the  idea  that  her  husband  should  think  /of 
retrieving  his  fortunes  by  her  professional  labors,  she  surren- 
dered at  once  to  his  creditors  the  dower  he  had  settled  upon 
her,  and  returned  without  him  to  Europe.  Her  reappearance 
on  the  stage  was  a  perfect  ovation.  Whether  at  Paris,  London, 
Milan,  Venice,  or  Vienna,  she  was  always  received  with  un- 
bounded enthusiasm.  In  March,  1836,  the  French  courts  having 
mean  time  annulled  her  marriage  with  Malibran,  on  account  of 
some  informality,  she  married  De  Beriot,  the  celebrated  Belgian 
violinist  and  composer.  Less  than  a  month  afterwards,  she  was 
severely  injured  by  a  fall  from  her  horse ;  but  neglecting  to  attend 
to  the  case  properly,  and  even  singing  at  the  Manchester  festival 
against  her  physician's  orders,  she  was  attacked  in  September 
by  a  nervous  fever  which  carried  her  off  in  a  few  days.  Her 
sudden  death  was  universally  regretted,  few  actresses  leaving 
more  sincere  or  more  numerous  friends.  Her  generosity,  ami- 
ability, and  conversational  powers  were  fully  on  a  par  with  her 
professional  abilities,  which  were  extraordinary.  She  could  sing 
soprano  or  contralto  with  equal  ease  and  wonderful  richness 
and  efficiency,  and  her  dramatic  were  fully  as  great  as  her  lyrical 
qualities.  Her  high  order  of  genius,  and  the  pecuharity  of  her 
voice,  trained  to  perfection  by  her  father's  skilful  patience,  per- 
mitted her  to  attempt  with  perfect  success  the  most  varied  roles, 
tragic  or  comic,  in  the  finest  operas  of  the  time. 

Note  33  —  STOCKHAUSEN  —  page  39. 

Jules  Stockhausen  (1826 ),  son  of  a  harpist  and  com- 
positor, was  born  in  Paris.  Possessing  a  good  barytone  voice, 
and  a  happy  musical  organization,  he  cultivated  both  assiduously 
at  the  Conservatoire,  and  afterwards  took  lessons  from  Manuel 


RUBINL  205 

Garcia.  Though  an  excellent  singer,  he  has  not  succeeded  well 
in  opera,  being  rather  deficient  in  dramatic  ability,  but  he  is 
quite  at  home  in  musical  festivals,  concerts,  etc. ;  and  he  has 
been  for  a  long  time  orchestra  leader  of  the  Hamburg  Theatre. 

Note  34  —  RUBINI  —  page  39. 

J.  Giovanni  Battista  Rubini  (1795-18  54),  one  of  the  first 
top.ors  of  the  nineteenth  century,  though  not  remarkable  as  an 
actor,  sang  in  all  the  capitals  of  Europe  with  great  success,  and 
at  fifty  retired  with  a  princely  fortune.  His  voice,  remarkably 
sweet,  was  unrivalled  in  expressing  tenderness  and  sorrow,  and 
had  the  unusual  compass  of  two  octaves  and  two  notes. 

Note  35  —  DIDEROT  —  page  39. 

Denis  Diderot  (1712-1784),  the  notorious  encyclopaedist, 
began  life  in  Paris  as  a  teacher  and  translator.  His  first  origi- 
nal work,  Philosophic  Tho2ights,  attacked  every  religion  without 
exception,  and  attempted  to  sap  the  foundation  of  all  morality 
by  openly  preaching  atheism,  and  pretending  to  prove  that 
creation  was  all  a  mere  work  of  chance.  In  spite  of  his  ab- 
surdities and  contradictions,  and  of  the  terrible  consequences 
to  which  such  writings  should  evidently  lead,  he  wrote  with 
such  fire,  wit,  and  power,  that  his  work  created  a  great  sensation 
all  over  Europe,  and  lifted  him  at  once  into  a  high  position  in 
the  "  philosophic  "  world.  In  1751,  in  conjunction  with  D'Alem- 
bert,  he  started  the  Encyclopkdie,  of  which  vast  enterprise  of  in- 
credulity he  was  really  the  soul,  the  heart,  and  the  head.  In 
spite  of  all  his  efforts,  however,  the  E?tcyclopedie  was  an  immense 
Babel.  He  calls  it  himself  a  "  Gulf  into  which  rag-pickers  of  all 
kinds  flung  at  random  an  infinity  of  things  badly  observed,  badly 
digested,  the  good,  the  bad,  and  the  doubtful,  always  incohe- 
rent and  often  contradictory."  And  elsewhere,  "  We  employed 
on  it  a  detestable  race  of  writers  who,  knowing  nothing  whatever 
and  pluming  themselves  on  knowing  all  things,  endeavored 
to  distinguish  themselves  by  a  desperate  universality,  attacking 
everything,  confounding  everything,  and  actually  spoiling  every- 
thing." In  spite  of  his  ardent  zeal,  resolution,  and  great  literary 
x8 


206  NOTES. 

abilities,  his  irregular  and  dissipated  habits  made  him  so  poor 
that  he  was  obhged  to  sell  his  library.  Catherine  of  Russia 
bought  it  for  $10,000,  and  not  only  left  him  the  use  of  it  for  life, 
but  allowed  him  1000  francs  for  taking  care  of  it,  paying  him  fifty 
years'  salary  in  advance.  In  her  great  admiration  for  the  infidel 
philosopher,  she  even  invited  him  to  St.  Petersburg,  where  her 
half-barbarous,  half-luxurious  court  gave  him  a  brilliant  recep- 
tion. It  was  the  fashion  of  the  time  to  idolize  everything  French, 
and  though  his  ideas  were  dissolving  every  fibre  of  European 
civilization,  it  was  confidently  thought  that  they  were  powerless 
towards  injuring  the  inorganic  colossus  of  the  North.  "  I  talked 
much,  and  frequently,  with  Diderot,"  writes  Catherine,  "  but 
with  more  curiosity  than  profit."  "The  people  of  St.  Peters- 
burg," writes  Frederick  the  Great,  "  find  him  tiresome  and  dis- 
putatious, talking  the  same  rigmarole  over  and  over  again." 
Diderot,  however,  was  immensely  pleased  at  his  reception ; 
"  this  great  empress,"  he  cries  in  his  ecstasy,  "  unites  the  beauty 
of  Cleopatra  to  the  soul  of  a  Julius  Caesar." 

On  his  return  to  Paris,  though  now  old  and  infirm,  he  became 
the  centre  of  the  club  of  Esprits-Forts  (free-thinkers)  who  met 
regularly  at  Baron  d'Holbach's,  and  whose  influence  on  the 
French  nation  so  strongly  contributed  to  bring  about  the  horrors 
of  a  Revolution  which  they  did  not  live  long  enough  to  witness. 
Diderot's  works  are  too  numerous  even  to  name :  philosophy, 
romance,  the  drama  [^Pere  de  famille  being  his  masterpiece), 
fine  arts  criticism,  literary  criticism,  etc.,  there  was  nothing  too 
high  or  too  difficult  for  his  daring  genius.  They  made  a  great 
noise  in  their  day,  but  at  present  they  are  nearly  all  forgotten, 
the  last  edition  having  appeared  fifty-eight  years  ago.  In 
private  life  he  is  said  to  have  been  good-natured,  generous, 
charitable  even,  but  his  name  is  to  be  held  in  eternal  infamy  as 
the  apostle  of  atheism  and  corruption,  and  the  preacher  of  the 
most  destructive  doctrines.  He  is  said  to  have  been  so  exces- 
sively vain  and  egotistical  that  on  his  journey  from  St.  Peters- 
burg he  usually  travelled  in  a  dressing-gown  and  night-cap. 
"  Who  is  that?"  asked  the  people  who  could  not  help  noticing 
him.     "  That 's  the  celebrated  M.  Diderot,"  was  his  footman's 


DO  RIVAL.  20; 

ready  reply.  Like  most  talkers  of  fluency  and  eloquence,  he 
generally  contrived  to  keep  all  the  conversation  to  himself —  a 
decided  inconvenience  when  some  other  member  of  the  com- 
pany wished  to  shine.  Voltaire  could  not  bear  him  :  "  He  's  a 
capital  hand  at  monologue,"  said  he,  "  but  at  dialogue  he  is 
profoundly  ignorant." 

Note  36  —  DORI VAL  —  page  39, 

This  actor  died  in  the  French  Colonies  whither  he  had  gone 
for  the  benefit  of  his  health  (1792).  Though  httle  favored  by 
nature,  his  voice  being  heavy  and  disagreeable,  and  his  figure 
small  and  far  from  imposing,  his  warmth,  honesty,  intelligence 
and  general  dramatic  talents  were  great  enough  to  recommend 
him  to  general  favor.  He  performed  at  the  Theatre- Frajigais  ; 
Polyeuctes  and  Orosmanes  were  his  most  successful  impersona- 
tions. 

Note  37  — VOLTAIRE  — page  40. 

Francois  Marie  Arouet  (1694-1778),  the  most  universal 
writer  of  any  age  or  country,  was  born,  of  highly  respectable 
parents  in  Paris,  where  he  studied  for  seven  years  with  brilliant 
success  in  the  college  of  Louis-le-Grand,  at  that  time  directed  by 
the  Jesuits  and  frequented  by  the  highest  nobility.  His  father 
wished  him  to  follow  his  own  profession,  that  of  notary  and 
government  accountant,  but  an  irresistible  propensity  disgusted 
young  Arouet  with  plodding,  steady  work  and  attracted  him  to 
literature,  chiefly  poetry.  To  the  malign  influence  exercised  on 
his  early  years  by  his  godfather,  a  certain  Abbe  de  Chateauneuf 
who,  though  nominally  a  priest,  was  really  a  refined  voluptuary, 
most  of  the  failings  of  this  man  may  be  safely  attributed.  The 
very  first  book  in  which  he  had  learned  to  read,  a  poem  of 
Rousseau's  representing  Moses  as  an  impostor,  had  been  put 
into  the  child's  hands  by  this  most  godless  of  godfathers.  No 
wonder  that  one  of  his  Jesuit  teachers,  while  admiring  the  wit, 
learning  and  industry  of  his  pupil,  uttered  the  easy  prophecy  : 
"  You  will  one  day  become  the  head-centre  {coryphee)  of  deism." 
At  the  age  of  seventeen  he  left  school,  knowing  Latin  pretty 
well,  very  little  Greek,  but  a^eady  manifesting  a  decided  liter- 


208  NOTES. 

ary  ability.  He  says  himself:  "  I  could  not  tell  if  Francis  T. 
had  ever  been  made  prisoner,  nor  where  in  the  world  Pavia  lay  ; 
I  knew  nothing  whatever  of  the  laws  or  the  interests  of  P^rance  ; 
I  knew  not  one  word  of  mathematics,  not  one  word  of  sound 
philosophy;  I  knew  Latin,  and  could  rhyme  nonsense."  But 
he  always  spoke  of  Father  Poree,  his  rhetoric  teacher,  with 
much  warmth  :  "  No  one,"  he  says,  "  could  make  virtue  or 
learning  more  delightful.  His  lessons  were  hours  of  real  enjoy- 
ment." In  the  college  register  the  following  words  are  said  to 
have  been  found  after  young  Arouet's  name  :  "Puer  ingeniosu.s, 
sed  msignis  nebiilo'''  (a  youth  of  parts  but  an  unmitigated  scamp.) 

It  was  rather  early  for  him  to  leave  school,  but  his  godfather 
soon  gave  his  education  the  finishing  touch  by  introducing  him 
to  a  witty  and  brilliant  but  profligate  set  of  young  nobles  call- 
ing themselves  La  Societe  du  Temple,  where  his  sprightliness, 
good  humor  and  particularly  his  talent  for  poetry  and  unsparing 
epigram  soon  made  him  a  great  favorite.  His  father's  alarm  at 
the  consequences  of  such  an  immoral  life  banished  him  to  Hol- 
land as  secretary  to  the  French  ambassador,  but  an  "  entangling 
alliance  "  there  of  an  amorous  nature  soon  brought  him  into  such 
danger  that  he  was  obliged  to  leave  the  country  and  return  to 
Paris.  Another  unsuccessful  attempt  at  studying  law  compelled 
his  father  to  banish  him  again  from  the  capital.  Of  all  places 
on  earth  he  liked  Paris  the  best,  but  there  his  exceeding  sensi- 
tiveness to  ridicule  and  his  wonderful  propensity  for  getting  into 
trouble  never  allowed,  him  to  stay  for  any  great  length  of  time. 
His  place  of  banishment  on  this  occasion,  however,  was  no 
further  off  than  a  friend's  house  at  Fontainebleau,  where  the 
intimate  society  of  an  old  gentleman,  who  happened  to  be  an 
enthusiastic  admirer  of  Henry  IV.  and  his  times,  had  such  an 
effect  on  the  young  poet  that  he  immediately  began  the  com- 
position of  the  famous  Henriade,  the  only  work  in  the  French 
language  that  pretends  to  be  an  epic  poem. 

His  skill  in  stinging  satire  had  by  this  time  become  so  well 
known  that  he  was  instantly  pointed  out  as  the  author  of  some 
of  the  severest  lampoons  to  which  the  death  of  Louis  XIV. 
(1715)  had  given  rise.     His  satirical  attempts  at  exculpation   in 


VOLTAIRE.  209 

fact,  irritated  the  Regent  so  much  that  he  was  confined  in  the 
Bastile  for  nearly  a  year,  where,  however,  he  made  the  best  use 
of  his  time  by  writing  out  some  of  the  cantos  of  the  Henriade 
and  finally  revising  and  correcting  his  CEdi/>e,  a  tragedy  com- 
menced several  years  before.  On  his  release  he  was  presented 
to  the  Regent  who,  probably  desirous  to  conciliate  so  dangerous 
an  opponent,  insisted  on  his  accepting  a  gift  of  one  thousand 
crowns.  "  Your  Royal  Highness  is  very  good,"  was  Arouet's 
dry  reply,  "  for  your  care  in  providing  my  board  too  I  must 
express  my  gratitude,  but  in  future  I  hope  your  Royal  Highness 
will  not  trouble  itself  so  much  about  my  lodgings."  The  first 
use  he  made  of  his  liberty  was  to  change  his  name  to  Voltaire, 
Arouet  having  a  disagreeable  and  ominous  sound  in  French 
ears.  Voltaire  is  simply  an  anagram  q{  Arouet  l.j.  [lejeune,  the 
young),  the  u  becoming  v,  and  the//,  as  is  usual  in  such  trans- 
formations. 

The  success  of  CEdipe  at  the  Thedtre-Fraufais  restored  the 
young  poet  once  more  to  a  high  position  in  fashionable  society 
and  encouraged  him  to  persevere  in  his  literary  efforts,  though 
for  the  next  five  or  six  years  (1718-1724)  he  produced  nothing 
worth  speaking  of  except  sprightly  epistles,  stanzas,  rondeaus, 
etc.,  directed  to  his  numerous  lady  admirers,  infinite  in  number 
and  written  with  extraordinary  ease.  In  1725  we  find  him  play- 
ing court-poet  with  considerable  success,  the  young  queen  Maria 
Leczinska  laughing  over  his  comedy  L  Indiscret,  weeping  over 
his  tragedy  Mariavine,  calling  him  her  "poor  Voltaire"  and 
allowing  him  a  pension  of  1500  livres  (about  $400)  a  year  out 
of  her  private  purse.  The  young  king  (Louis  XV.)  had  already 
conferred  on  him  a  yearly  pension  of  about  $500.  Being  now  in 
possession  of  a  good  fortune,  his  pensions  and  inheritance  bring- 
ing him  at  least  10  thousand /z?;/r^^  a  year,  enjoying  considerable 
court  influence,  his  sharp  tongue  in  that  ageof  frivolity  securing 
him  almost  as  many  friends  as  enemies,  he  began  to  promise 
himself  an  unclouded  future,  when  all  at  once  he  found  himself 
in  greater  trouble  than  ever.  The  consequences  having  an  im- 
portant effect  on  his  after  life,  the  story  deserves  a  little  detail. 

Conversing  one  evening  with  his  usual  vivacitv  in  the  midst 
18  *  O 


2IO  NOTES. 

of  a  lively  party  in  the  actress  Adrienne  Lecouvrcur's  box  at 
the  Theatre- Fran f ais ,  he  is  suddenly  interrupted  by  the  Chev- 
alier de  Rohan  who  happens  to  be  present.  "  Who  is  this  young 
fellow  that  talks  so  loud?"  asks  the  Chevalier  with  his  most 
aristocratic  air.  "  The  name  of  this  young  fellow,"  replies  Vol- 
taire with  his  usual  readiaess,  "  is  nothing  whatever  to  boast  of. 
but,  such  as  it  is,  he  has  done  something  to  honor  it."  This 
was  a  severe  shy  at  the  Chevalier  whose  only  claim  to  distinc- 
tion, as  everybody  knew,  lay  in  the  fact  of  his  being  the  Duke 
de  Rohan-Chabot's  son.  The  angry  aristocrat  raises  his  cane, 
but  Lecouvrcur's  swoon  puts  a  temporar^^  end  to  the  quarrel. 
A  few  days  afterwards,  Voltaire,  dining  at  the  Duke  de  Sully's, 
receives  a  note  saying  a  gentleman  down-stairs  desires  an  inter- 
view. Descending  to  see  who  it  is,  he  is  instantly  assailed  at 
the  doorstep  by  three  servants  armed  with  heavy  canes,  who 
give  him  a  severe  beating,  the  Chevalier  crying  out  all  the  time 
from  the  house  opposite,  "  don't  strike  him  on  the  head !  "  The 
poor  poet's  remonstrances  with  court  and  friends  are  equally 
vain.  "  Served  the  insolent  buffoon  right !  "  cry  the  nobles. 
"  The  Chevalier  was  too  kind  !  "  cry  his  enemies.  "  Oh,  Mon- 
sieur de  Voltaire,  it 's  really  too  bad !  "  cry  his  friends  before 
his  face,  choking  with  laughter  however  when  his  back  is 
turned.  Even  his  own  family  ridicule  the  idea  of  a  commoner 
demanding  satisfaction  of  a  nobleman.  But  the  fieiy  com- 
moner has  no  notion  of  pocketing  the  affront.  For  six  weeks 
he  practises  night  and  day  with  a  fencing-master,  and  then 
sends  a  challenge  to  the  Chevalier.  It  is  accepted,  but  next 
day,  instead  of  an  adversary,  he  meets  a  file  of  soldiers  who 
once  more  lock  him  up  in  the  Bastile.  He  is  let  out  in  a  month, 
but  unable  to  endure  existence  in  a  city  where  such  a  flagrant 
outrage  can  be  permitted  with  impunity,  he  asks  for  his  pass- 
ports and  starts  for  England  (1726). 

He  passed  three  years  in  England,  mostly  in  London  or  its 
neighborhood.  There  he  made  acquaintance  with  Pope,  who, 
disgusted  with  his  incredulity,  left  him  suddenly  one  day  and 
would  not  see  him  any  more  ;  with  Swift,  to  whose  Gulliver  i 
Travels  he  was  indebted  for  more  than  one  of  his  cankerous 


VOLTAIRE.  211 

ideas ;  and  particularly  with  Bolingbroke,  the  violent  free 
thinker,  who  soon  initiated  him  into  the  anti-christian  writin^^s 
of  Woolston,  Tindal,  Collins,  and  Shaftesbury  in  particular, 
whom  he  pronounced  to  be  the  "boldest  of  English  philoso- 
phers." In  a  word,  his  residence  in  England  made  him  cooler, 
more  persevering  and  rabider  in  his  attacks  on  Christianity 
than  any  Frenchman  had  ever  been  before.  There  too  he 
put  the  EngHsh  into  such  good-humor  by  the  flattering  notice 
he  had  taken  of  Queen  Elizabeth  in  the  Ilenriade,  now  com- 
pletely finished,  that  he  had  no  difficulty  in  obtaining  permission 
to  dedicate  it  to  Queen  Caroline.  Nay,  publishing  it  by  sub- 
scription in  London,  in  spite  of  its  foreign  language  and  the 
charges  of  impiety  instantly  made  against  it,  he  had  the  satis- 
faction of  seeing  its  sales  amount  in  a  short  time  to  upwards  of 
40  thousand  dollars. 

This  sum  might  be  called  the  basis  of  his  future  fortune. 
Though  not  a  miser,  he  was  always  keenly  alive  to  every  chance 
of  making  money.  On  his  return  to  France  he  found  that  3 
lottery  had  been  started  in  Paris  to  pay  the  debts  of  the  city 
Hearing  from  La  Condamine  the  scientist  that  by  buying  up 
all  the  tickets  it  was  impossible  not  to  win,  Voltaire  instantly 
organized  a  company,  the  members  of  which  soon  had  the  pleas- 
ure of  dividing  among  themselves  at  least  a  million  francs.  In 
fact,  henceforward  he  had  always  some  money  speculation  on 
hand ;  in  spite  of  his  incessant  literary  industry,  he  was  con- 
tinually investing  in  corn,  bacon,  pictures,  or  whatever  else  could 
turn  an  honest  penny,  with  now  and  then  a  fat  army  contract 
secured  by  the  influence  of  some  friend  at  court ;  and  so  "  shrewd 
was  he  in  financial  matters  that,  owing  but  little  to  his  books, 
which,  despite  their  immense  popularity,  were  never  a  source  of 
much  profit,  his  yearly  income  at  his  death  is  said  to  have 
amounted  to  between  30  and  40  thousand  dollars,  an  income  in 
those  times  truly  princely." 

But  even  this  great  worldly  fortune  never  interrupted  his  lit- 
erary labors.  His  industry  was  unremitting  to  the  last  day  of  his 
life.  Of  even  his  chief  works,  however,  we  can  hardly  give  the 
names.     At  this  period,  his  principal  productions  were  The  Life 


212  NOTES. 

of  Charles  XI I.  of  Sweden  ( 173 1),  as  a  narrative  a  perfect  master- 
piece, but  as  a  history  pronounced  inexact  and  weak  by  Napoleon, 
who  examined  it  critically  ;  and  his  fine  tragedy,  Zaire  (alluded 
to  on  page  40),  a  work  replete  with  majiesty  and  fire,  and  con- 
taining passages  inspired  by  the  purest  Christian  morality. 

His  enemies  now  began  to  show  themselves  disposed  to  leave 
him  undisturbed,  but  his  restless,  carping,  mocking  spirit  could 
not  brook  repose.  His  Philosophical  Letters,  composed  in  Eng- 
land, printed  in  Rouen,  and  now  published  for  the  first  time, 
were  read  with  avidity  by  many,  but  they  excited  a  cry  of  horror 
and  indignation  among  the  orderly  and  conservative  classes 
from  one  end  of  the  country  to  the  other.  Even  the  heartless 
government,  w  hich  could  excuse  everything  but  an  attack  on 
itself,  appeared  to  be  so  shocked  at  this  wanton  and  undisguised 
attempt  to  sap  the  very  foundations  of  all  Christian  morality, 
that  parliament  ordered  the  book  to  be  burned  by  the  hangman, 
the  printer  to  be  put  in  the  Bastile,  and  the  author  to  be  arrested. 
Voltaire  sought  safety  in  flight  first  to  Switzerland,  then  to  Bel- 
gium, and  afterwards,  when  the  storm  had  calmed  down  a  little, 
to  Lorraine,  a  country  at  that  time  not  yet  included  in  French 
territory  (1734). 

Here,  in  the  house  of  a  hterary  lady,  a  Madame  du  Chatelet, 
to  whom  he  was  not  married,  and  whose  society  her  husband,  a 
man  of  merit,  seems  to  have  generally  avoided,  Voltaire  spent 
fourteen  years  of  as  tolerable  tranquillity  as  his  restless  spirit 
was  able  to  endure.  Most  of  the  works  produced  in  this  unbe- 
coming retreat  were  worthy  of  it  in  every  way.  The  first,  La 
Pucelle,  a  filthy  and  disgusting  burlesque  on  Joan  of  Arc,  the 
divine  maid  of  Orleans,  the  eternal  pride  and  glory  of  every 
noble  French  heart,  would  be  enough  by  itself  to  condemn  him 
to  eternal  infamy.  Another,  the  Life  of  Rousseau  was  of  a  nature 
so  utterly  disgusting  that  he  was  afterwards  heartily  ashamed 
of  it  himself,  repeatedly,  but  in  vain,  attempting  to  deny  the 
paternity.  To  do  Madame  du  Chatelet  justice,  it  must  be  ac- 
knowledged that  as  long  as  she  lived  she  kept  this  and  all  other 
works  of  the  kind  safe  and  secure  under  lock  and  key.  Even 
in  his  purely  scientific  works,  if  anything  can  be  called  sciea- 


VOLTAIRE.  213 

f.ific  where  the  real  object  is  neither  science  nor  truth,  such  as 
on  Newton's  Philosophy ,  on  the  Nature  of  Fire,  on  the  Stars,  etc., 
his  aim  all  through  was  to  destroy  the  faith  of  mankind  in  a 
benevolent  and  superintending  Providence. 

In  1740  began  his  personal  acquaintance  with  Frederick  of 
Prussia,  who,  this  year,  ascended  the  throne.  They  had  already 
carried  on  a  very  active  correspondence,  and  the  young  monarch 
was  so  much  pleased  with  a  work  of  Voltaire's  proving  Prussia 
to  have  certain  rights  over  a  territory  just  then  claimed  by  France 
that  he  invited  him  to  the  favor  of  a  confidential  interview. 
Voltaire  considered  himself  highly  honored  by  this  attention 
from  the  "  Solomon  of  the  North,"  as  he  called  him,  and  spent 
two  or  three  very  pleasant  months  in  his  company,  finding  the 
unscrupulous  King  even  then  quite  busy  in  preparing  the  great 
blow  for  stealing  the  march  on  Austria,  that  is  called  in  history 
the  "  Conquest  of  Silesia." 

In  1742,  his  play  of  Mahomet  gained  some  applause  at  the 
Theatre- Fram^ais,  and  Merope,  foUowirig  immediately,  obtained 
such  brilliant  and  universal  success  that  his  friends  thought  it 
an  opportune  moment  to  propose  him  for  the  seat  in  the  Acad- 
emy then  vacant.  To  obtain  this  honor,  one  he  had  long  so 
eagerly  courted,  he  did  not  hesitate  to  write  a  public  letter  full 
of  the  strongest  protestations  of  his  devotion  to  Catholicity,  but 
his  enemies,  too  shrewd  to  be  taken  in  by  a  ruse  so  transparent, 
not  only  rejected  him  by  a  large  majority,  but  also  stung  him  to 
the  quick  by  electing  in  the  course  of  the  year  four  of  his  most 
bitter  opponents. 

Frederick  II.  had  now  become  a  great  power  in  Europe. 
He  had  first  made  an  unjustifiable  war  on  a  friendly  princess, 
and  then  having  gained  his  ends,  he  suddenly  made  peace, 
leaving  his  allies  the  French  in  the  lurch.  Having  thus  com- 
mitted two  great  treasons,  it  was  expected  that  his  friend  Vol- 
taire would  have  no  great  trouble  in  inducing  him  to  commit  a 
third.  The  poet,  delighted  with  the  idea  of  suddenly  becoming 
a  great  statesman,  eagerly  undertook  the  task.  But  he  found 
his  diplomacy,  his  proposals,  and  eloquent  state  papers  to  be 
all  alike  unheeded  by  the  astute  king :  they  were  heard  with  a 


214  NOTES. 

smile  and  answered  with  a  jest.     "  The  Austrians  will  send 
overwhelming  forces  into  Silesia!  "  cries  Voltaire. 

"  And  with  joy  we  shall  receive  them,  Rambo  Bambo, 
And  a  jolly  welcome  give  them,  Rambo  Bee  1 " 

sings  Frederick,  quoting  a  well-known  opera  snatch. 

In  spite  of  his  failure,  on  his  return  to  Paris,  he  found  court 
life  so  very  enchanting  that  to  perpetuate  it  he  again  turned 
court-sycophant,  extolling  the  beauty  and  graces  of  the  new 
favorite,  the  notorious  Madame  de  Pompadour,  in  poems  whose 
abject  flattery  was  far  from  being  redeemed  even  by  their  un- 
questioned wit.  He  was  quite  successful.  A  ballet,  considered 
by  himself  no  better  than  a  penny  farce,  brought  him  more 
honors  than  his  greatest  masterpieces.  He  was  made  historiog- 
rapher of  France,  and  also  nobleman  of  the  bed-chamber  with 
the  right  of  selling  the  position,  a  privilege  of  which  he  availed 
himself  as  soon  as  possible  by  disposing  of  the  office  for  60 
thousand  livres.  But  this  was  not  all.  A  new  vacancy  occur- 
ring in  the  Academy,  he  applied  again  for  it,  this  time  confident 
of  success  ;  still  to  make  assurance  doubly  sure,  he  attempted 
as  usual  to  conciliate  the  ecclesiastical  party  by  public  letters 
of  the  most  unblushing  hypocrisy.  "  I  love  and  admire  the 
Jesuits,"  he  declares.  "  If  a  single  page  bearing  my  name  can 
be  pointed  out  as  capable  of  scandalizing  even  a  sacristan,  that 
page  I  will  tear  out  before  his  face.  I  want  to  live  and  die' 
quietly  in  the  bosom  of  the  Church,  Catholic,  Apostolic,  and 
Roman  !  "  Pompadour's  influence  being  irresistible,  Voltaire 
was  admitted  to  the  Academy  in  May,  1746. 

But  court  favor  is  notoriously  of  short  duration.  His  poems 
of  Fonienoy  and  his  opera  of  the  Temple  of  Glory  were  signal 
failures ;  in  the  latter  piece  he  brought  in  so  many  temples  that 
one  wit  called  him  the  Templar,  and  another  cried  out  there 
was  only  one  more  wanting,  the  Temple  d'V Amour — propre/ 
The  increasing  success  of  Crebillon's  tragedies  completed  the 
disgust  of  the  exceedingly  sensitive  and  jealous  poet,  and  drove 
him  once  more  back  to  Lorraine.  But  there  he  found  things 
sadly  changed.     Madame  du  Chatelet  received  him  very  coldly, 


VOLTAIRE.  215 

in  fact  left  him  altogether  for  a  more  constant  admirer.  She 
was  perhaps  the  only  woman  that  had  ever  really  cared  for  him, 
and  her  death,  occurring  shortly  afterwards,  rendered  a  longer 
stay  in  Lorraine  unendurable.  His  new  sojourn,  in  Paris  he 
tried  to  render  pleasant  by  erecting  a  private  theatre  for  the 
representation  of  his  own  tragedies,  himself  performing  the 
chief  parts,  assisted  by  his  literary  niece  —  Madame  Denis,  a 
widow  of  39  who  took  charge  of  his  household  —  and  a  young 
man  named  Lekain,  who  afterwards  became  a  celebrated  tragic 
actor.  But  displeased  either  at  the  indifference  of  his  friends, 
or  the  cabals  of  his  enemies,  or  the  disfavor  of  Pompadour  who 
found  him  too  familiar,  or  the  open  dislike  of  the  Queen  and 
the  Dauphin  who  regarded  him  as  the  enemy  of  religion,  he 
determined  at  last  to  yield  to  Frederick's  solicitations  and  ex- 
change his  residence  in  Paris  for  one  at  the  court  of  Berlin.  "  I 
am  still  in  Paris,"  he  wrote  to  Frederick,  "but  my  heart  is  in 
Berlin  ;  it  is  indeed  an  altar  on  which  I  would  sacrifice  every- 
thing for  the  glory  of  you,  my  Jehovah."  In  1750,  at  the  age 
of  56,  he  left  Paris,  which  he  was  never  to  see  again  till  twenty- 
eight  years  later,  when  he  returned  there  to  die. 

Received  with  delight,  decorated  with  titles,  lodged  in  the 
palace,  provided  with  a  pension  of  4  thousand  dollars  a  year  for 
life,  the  dazzled  poet  readily  believed  himself  in  the  country  of 
liberty,  philosophy  and  glory.  At  court,  on  the  promenade,  in 
the  theatre  nothing  but  Voltaire !  the  great  Voltaire  !  The  morn- 
ings were  devoted  to  literary  labors  with  the  King  whom  he 
found  "  to  possess  at  once  the  docility  of  a  pupil  and  the  genius 
of  a  rival."  The  evenings  were  passed  in  philosophical  sup- 
pers, in  company  with  such  congenial  spirits  as  Maupertuis, 
President  of  the  Berlin  Academy,  as  D'Argens,  notorious  for  his 
attacks  on  Christianity,  as  D'Arnaud,  a  conceited,  but  indiffer- 
ent poet,  as  La  Mettrie,  half-materialist,  half-madman,  all  refu- 
gee Frenchmen,  pensioned  by  Frederick,  and  kept  expressly  to 
amuse  his  leisure  moments  by  their  lively  and  blasphemous 
ridicule  of  everything  held  most  sacred  in  the  eyes  of  the  rest 
of  mankind.  The  rest  of  Voltaire's  time  was  mostly  spent  in 
correcting  his  works,  and  finishing  the  Age  of  Louis  XIV, 


2l6  NOTES. 

The  honey-moon  did  not  last  long.  '  First  poor  D'Arnaud  had 
to  go  —  one  poet  was  enough  for  any  household.  Then  the 
velvet  paw  of  the  amiable  King  would  give  even  his  illustrious 
friend  a  slight  scratch  unexpectedly.  Correcting  poetry  began 
to  pall.  "  I  have  to  wash  too  much  of  his  majesty's  dirty  linen," 
writes  the  poet  to  one  of  his  friends  in  Paris.  After  a  while  his 
enthusiasm  is  still  cooler.  "  The  supper-parties  are  still  delicious, 
the  King  is  still  the  life  of  the  company,  but  —  I  have  still  my 
opera,  my  comedy,  my  concert,  my  reviews,  books,  studies,  but 
—  Berlin  is  still  fine,  the  princess  charming,  the  maids  of  honor 
beautiful,  but  —  but  —  but."  Frederick  too  begins  to  show  his 
disenchantment.  Apropos  of  a  quarrel  between  Voltaire  and 
a  Jewish  pawnbroker  about  some  money  and  diamonds,  "the 
Frenchman,"  he  writes,  "  will  get  out  of  it  as  usual  by  some 
trick,  but  his  character  will  be  more  contemptible  than  ever." 
Some  of  Frederick's  coarse  jokes  on  the  scandals  of  the  court 
of  Versailles  circulating  in  Paris,  Voltaire  was  suspected  of 
treachery.  The  whole  palace  was  in  a  ferment.  Macaulay, 
with  his  usual  exaggeration,  makes  the  quarrel  between  the 
great  King  and  the  great  poet  more  contemptible  than  it  really 
was :  Frederick,  he  says,  gave  orders  to  have  his  guest's  sugar 
and  chocolate  curtailed,  and  Voltaire  indemnified  himself  by 
pocketing  the  wax  candles. 

Things  rapidly  got  worse  and  worse.  Voltaire,  quite  as  jeal- 
ous of  a  scientist  as  of  a  poet,  turned  his  "  withering  smile  "  on 
Maupertuis,  and  wrote  an  amusing  squib,  Doctor  Akakia,  laugh- 
ing most  unmercifully  at  the  President's  scientific  pretensions. 
Frederick,  extremely  indignant,  ordered  Voltaire  to  suppress  it. 
The  poet  promised  to  do  so,  but  broke  his  word,  and  very  soon 
all  Berlin  was  making  merry  over  unfortunate  Maupertuis.  The 
King,  really  furious,  had  the  pamphlet  burned  by  the  hangman, 
and  ordered  his  guest  to  make  an  apology.  Voltaire,  alarmed, 
tried  as  usual  to  escape  by  a  lie,  trumping  up  something  about 
his  faithless  secretary  or  printer.  But  Frederick  was  no  longer 
to  be  imposed  on.  "  Your  impudence,"  he  writes,  "  confounds 
me.  Though  what  you  have  done  is  as  clear  as  day,  you  per- 
sist in  denying  your  guilt.     If  you  carry  on  this  thing  any  farther, 


VOLTAIRE.  217 

I  shall  have  the  whole  affair  printed,  so  that  the  world  may  see 
that  if  your  works  have  got  you  statues,  your  conduct  should 
have  got  you  chains."  A  longer  residence  in  Berlin  was  now 
impossible.  The  whole  quarrel  was  ridiculous  enough,  but  its 
results  troubled  all  Europe,  and  even  America.  The  embitter- 
ment  of  the  French  court  by  Frederick's  epigrams,  the  secret 
of  which  Voltaire  did  not  conceal,  threw  France  into  an  alliance 
with  Austria,  giving  rise  to  the  disastrous  "  Seven  Years'  War." 

In  1753,  the  sworn  friends  parted  forever,  one  anything  but 
sorry,  the  other  delighted  at  his  escape.  "  May  he  never  come 
back !  "  writes  the  King;  "  he  is  a  good  man  to  read  but  a  dan- 
gerous fellow  to  know."  Remembering,  however,  with  terror 
that  the  "  dangerous  fellow"  had  in  his  possession  a  volume  of 
his  MS.  poetry  of  which  he  would  probably  make  a  bad  use,  he 
suddenly  orders  the  Prussian  commander  at  Frankfort  to  arrest 
Voltaire  at  once,  and  to  take  away  his  key,  cross  and  ribbon, 
and  particularly  all  the  letters  and  writings  in  the  King's  hand 
that  might  be  found  in  his  possession.  Imagine  the  poet's  in- 
dignation. Through  a  series  of  ridiculous  blunders  on  the  part 
of  the  Prussian  official,  aided  very  probably  by  Frederick's 
well-known  love  for  coarse  practical  jokes,  Voltaire  had  actually 
to  endure  thirty-six  days'  imprisonment  before  he  was  finally 
suffered  to  quit  the  "  free  city  "  of  Frankfort.  The  Versailles 
court  being  deeply  offended  at  his  residence  in  the  capital  of 
France's  bitterest  foe,  Paris  was  not  to  be  thought  of  as  a  resi- 
dence ;  he  took  refuge  accordingly  in  Switzerland,  near  Geneva, 
having  houses  in  two  different  cantons,  the  better  to  escape  in 
case  of  danger. 

Here,  at  last,  free  from  every  tie,  possessing  an  ample  fortune, 
safe  from  king  or  church,  caring  little  any  longer  for  either,  and 
in  the  sixtieth  year  of  his  age,  he  threw  off  all  restraint,  and 
devoted  the  rest  of  his  life  to  the  set  task  of  destroying  Chris- 
tianity. He  issues  the  motto:  " Let  us  crush  ike  infa?noi(S 
thing/  "  He  is  the  absolute  and  unquestioned  king  of  the  in- 
fidels and  deists  throughout  Europe.  The  Encyclopedie  just 
beginning  to  appear  at  this  time,  Voltaire  hailed  it  with  delight 
as  the  great  battering-ram  by  which  the  "  philosophers  "  wore 
19 


2l8  NOTES. 

to  attack  and  utterly  demolish  all  religion,  and  actually  wrote 
eleven  articles  for  one  volume.  The  publication  of  La  Pucelle, 
however,  displeased  even  the  Swiss  themselves,  Protestants  as 
well  as  Catholics.  Rousseau  himself  was  so  shocked  at  the 
cynicism  and  impiety  of  another  of  Voltaire's  works  as  to  write  an 
indignant  reply  to  it,  characterizing  the  author  as  a  heart  of  de- 
pravity whose  memory  France  would  have  every  reason  to  curse 
and  detest.  But  Voltaire  discharged  at  Rousseau  one  of  his 
characteristic  shafts,  and  then  turning  on  the  Genevese  Protes- 
tants, he  attacked  them  with  as  much  ridicule  and  venom  as  he 
had  ever  heaped  upon  the  Jesuits.  To  put  himself  out  of  danger 
from  their  possible  violence,  he.  removed  to  a  chateau  in  the 
neighborhood,  called  Ferney,  on  French  territory,  which  he 
judged  to  be  safer  as  the  new  minister  of  France  was  his  friend. 
To  vex  them  still  further,  he  started  a  watch  factory,  which  for 
a  long  time  afterwards  proved  a  serious  rival  to  Geneva.  He 
even  erected  a  church  still  existing,  inscribing  on  it  Deo  erexit 
Voltaire,  though,  unable  to  find  a  clergyman,  he  had  to  preach 
in  it  himself.  Meantime  he  worked  away  with  astounding  in- 
dustry. Pamphlet  followed  pamphlet  incessantly,  all  breath- 
ing the  same  implacable  hostility  to  Christianity.  Most  of  them 
were  without  his  name,  but  nobody  mistook  the  author,  though 
as  usual  he  never  hesitated  to  disavow  them,  even  occasionally 
by  a  solemn  oath.  Ferney  became  the  Mecca  of  the  new  Ma- 
homet, which  every  "philosopher"  piously  visited  once  in  his 
lifetime. 

What  was  his  object  in  all  this  furious  zeal  for  destruction  ? 
Liberty  of  the  masses  ?  No  ;  he  has  himself  characterized  the 
people  as  "^  herd  of  oxen  in  need  of  nothitig  but  a  yoke,  some 
hay  and  a  whip ;  low  rabble,  a  mob  made  to  be  guided  but  un- 
worthy to  be  instructed.''  He  has  no  mercy  on  their  sufferings. 
When  the  poor  Poles  cry  out  in  agony  against  the  despotic 
Catherine  who  wants  to  rule  their  souls  as  well  as  their  bodies, 
he  tells  them  "  to  keep  still ;  the  Russian  can  fire  better  than 
you ;  don't  compel  your  protectors  to  destroy  you ;  they  come 
into  Poland  to  establish  toleration,  but  on  hostile  intolerants 
they  will  have  no  mercy."     This  same  Catherine  he  does  not 


VOLTAIRE.  2ig 

hesitate  to  glorify,  even  while  she  is  still  reeking  with  her  hus- 
band's blood,  writing  for  her  his  History  of  Russia,  dedicating 
to  her  his  History  of  Philosophy ,  applauding  her  victories  in  Po- 
land,' saluting  her  as  the  "  Semiramis  of  the  North  "  and  crying 
out,  "  it  is  from  the  north  that  light  comes  for  us  to-day  !  " 

Did  this  man  do  no  good?  Unquestionably  he  did  some 
good.  If  he  had  done  no  good,  he  could  have  done  less  evil ; 
the  good  was  the  bait  that  got  the  evil  swallowed.  He  raised  a 
sum  of  nearly  20,000  dollars  by  his  notes  on  an  edition  of  Cor- 
neille  for  the  benefit  of  a  poor  orphan  girl,  the  descendant  of 
that  illustrious  poet;  he  succeeded  in  clearing  the  memory  of 
Galas,  probably  unjustly  accused  of  strangling  his  son ;  he 
saved  the  life  of  Sirven  perhaps  also  unjustly  accused  of  mur- 
dering his  daughter ;  he  assisted  in  obtaining  some  relaxation 
in  the  severity  of  some  penal  laws  which  were  not  half  as  merci- 
less as  most  of  those  prevalent  fifty  years  ago  in  Ireland.  But 
these  cheap  services  were  exactly  of  the  kind  to  catch  popular 
sympathy.  Raising  a  violent  outcry  against  an  ecclesiastical 
abuse  which  at  the  very  worst  could  do  comparatively  little 
harm,  gains  us  the  applause  of  the  world,  but  if  we  are  really 
inspired  with  a  love  of  humanity,  why  not  exclaim  aloud  against 
the  wholesale  slaughter  of  the  countless  victims  to  the  ambition 
of  kings  and  emperors  ?  So  far  from  remonstrating  with  Cath- 
erine for  her  cruelties,  he  actually  offered  to  sell  her  some  trump- 
ery war-machine  of  his  own  invention  by  which,  as  he  said,  an 
army  of  ten  thousand  men  could  be  annihilated  at  one  blow. 
By  his  attacks  on  parliaments  he  destroyed  the  only  legitimate 
barrier  between  despotism  on  one  side  and  anarchy  on  the 
other,  thus  rendering  a  hideous  and  sanguinary  revolution  in- 
evitable. He  carried  on  an  immense  and  ever-extending  cor- 
respondence with  the  monarchs  of  Europe,  many  of  whom  he 
flattered  immensely  by  writing  to  them  at  all,  and  most  of  whom 
he  ended  by  bringing  around  to  his  own  way  of  dealing  with 
ecclesiastical  matters.  They  and  their  nobles  understood  him 
to  say :  "  Destroy  the  Church  and  you  can  do  what  you  please 
with  the  people  !  "  The  people  understood  him  to  say  :  "  De- 
stroy the  Church  and  you  can  do  what  you  please  with  the 


220  NOTES. 

nobles  and  the  kings ! "  Both  obeyed  him  as  well  as  they  were 
able.  Of  the  two  the  people  were  certainly  less  blamable  in 
allowing  themselves  to  be  deceived,  for  they  had  latterly  found 
their  rulers  both  exceedingly  selfish  and  exceedingly  unfaithful. 

He  was  84  years  of  age  when  Madame  Denis,  his  niece,  long 
since  weary  of  Ferney,  at  last  induced  him  to  return  to  Paris. 
His  arrival  created  a  great  excitement,  philosophers,  lords  and 
ladies  of  high  rank,  the  Academy,  actors,  and  men  of  letters 
overwhelming  him  with  attentions  through  curiosity  or  real  ad- 
miration. The  fatigue  bringing  on  a  hemorrhage,  he  thought 
himself  on  the  point  of  death  and  sent  for  a  priest.  The  Abbe 
Gauthier  administered  the  last  sacraments,  having  first  obtained 
from  the  sick  man  a  signed  paper  declaring  that  he  wished  to 
die  in  the  Catholic  Church,  in  which  he  had  been  born,  and  that 
he  humbly  asked  pardon  of  God  and  the  Church  for  all  the 
offences  of  which  he  had  ever  been  guilty.  But  the  hemor- 
rhage stopping,  in  two  weeks  he  felt  quite  strong  again  ;  in  two 
more  he  ventured  out  of  his  house  to  witness  the  representation 
of  one  of  his  best  pieces  Irene  in  the  Theatre- Fran  fats.  There 
a  reception  awaited  him  such  as  had  never  been  granted  to  the 
most  idolized  of  monarchs  or  to  the  bravest  warrior  that  ever 
saved  his  native  land.  His  bust,  placed  on  the  stage,  was 
crowned  amidst  the  wildest  applause  ;  again  and  again  he  had 
to  come  to  the  front  of  his  box  to  show  himself  to  his  frenzied 
admirers.  "You  are  smothering  me  with  roses!"  he  cried  in 
an  ecstasy  of  pleasure. 

But  he  is  not  dead  yet.  He  resumes  his  old  life,  and  for 
two  months  longer  shows  as  much  spirit  and  ambition  as 
the  youngest  around  him.  He  invites  the  French  Academy  to 
start  the  dictionary  on  a  new  plan,  offering  himself  to  take 
charge  of  the  letter  A.  He  pays  visits  to  nobility  and  princes, 
notably  to  the  Duke  de  Chartres,  where  he  sees  Louis  Philippe 
and  compliments  him  on  his  resemblance  to  the  Regent.  He 
is  actually  purchasing  a  house  for  a  protracted  stay  in  Paris 
when  he  is  suddenly  attacked  with  strangury,  his  old  complaint. 
This  time,  however,  instead  of  listening  to  his  physician,  who 
orders  the  most  absolute  repose,  he  takes  some  quack  medicine 


VOLTAIRE.  221 

handed  him  by  Marshal  Richelieu,  Brother  Cain,  as  Voltaird 
himself  calls  him  with  his  last  sigh.  The  drug  plunges  him 
into  stupor  from  which  he  never  recovers.  Abbe  Gauthier 
has  to  leave  him,  saying  he  is  in  no  state  to  receive  the  last 
rites. 

How  did  he  die  ?  Impiously  and  scornfully  ?  as  the  "  phi- 
losophers" aver;  or  like  a  madman  howling  with  rage  and 
terror  ?  as  many  unimpeachable  witnesses  testify.  What  does 
his  own  physician  say,  the  famous  Tronchin,  who  introduced 
inoculation  into  France,  who  was  neither  cleric  nor  philosopher, 
and  who  attended  him  at  his  last  illness  ?  He  speaks  candidly 
enough.  "If  my  principles  had  needed  strengthening,"  he 
writes,  "the  man  whose  death  agony  I  have  just  witnessed, 
would  have  bound  them  up  into  a  gordian  knot.  The  death  of 
a  good  man,  the  pleasant  close  of  a  beautiful  day,  compared 
with  that  of  Voltaire,  shows  all  the  difference  between  a  calm 
and  a  tempest.  ...  In  spite  of  my  injunctions  he  had  gone  to 
the  Academy  and  the  last  seance  was  too  much  for  him.  From 
that  moment  till  the  day  of  his  death  his  life  was  one  hurricane 
of  madness.  The  drugs  that  he  had  taken  to  give  himself 
strength  threw  him  into  the  most  frightful  state  of  despair  and 
insanity.  I  recall  it  now  with  horror.  As  soon  as  he  saw  that 
what  he  had  done  to  strengthen  himself  had  produced  the  con- 
trary effect,  death  was  continually  before  his  eyes.  Rage  in- 
stantly took  possession  of  his  soul.  .  .  .  Remember  the  raving 
madness  of  Orestes  — furiis  agitatus  obiit  (he  expired  tortured 
to  death  by  the  furies)." 

The  pastor  not  allowing  the  body  to  be  interred  in  the  parish 
of  S.  Sulpice,  Abbe  Mignot,  Voltaire's  nephew,  had  it  embalmed 
and  buried  in  his  own  abbey  at  Scellieres,  on  the  Seine,  whence, 
on  the  destruction  of  the  monastery,  thirteen  years  later,  the  re- 
mains were  removed  by  a  decree  of  the  National  Assembly,  and 
transferred  to  the  Church  of  Sainte  Genevieve  in  Paris,  at  that 
time  called  the  Pantheon. 

For  a  long  time  mankind  will  differ  regarding  the  merits  of 
Voltaire.  Many  consider  him  a  monster,  a  demon  incarnate,  a 
curse  to  the  human  race;  others  worship  him' as  the  destroyer 
19* 


222  NOTES. 

of  superstition,  ignorance,  and  barbarism.  But  nobody  claim; 
for  him  the  merit  of  originating  a  single  principle  of  solidity  or 
truth.  Giving  him  every  credit  for  extraordinary  grace,  clear- 
ness and  vivacity,  we  have  great  difficulty  in  discovering  what 
may  be  called  heart  in  his  writings ;  of  deep  feeling,  the  origin 
of  true  eloquence  as  of  true  poetry,  he  seems  almost  completely 
destitute.  He  has  no  regard  for  truth.  To  make  fun,  he  has 
no  hesitation  in  calling  Shakespeare  "an  ugly  ape,"  an  "in- 
spired idiot,"  a  "  big  madman  everywhere  but  in  London."  To 
gain  his  point,  he  utters  without  the  slightest  compunction  the 
most  atrocious  falsehoods,  confidently  relying  on  the  ignorance 
of  his  readers  to  get  them  swallowed.  Why  was  he  so  powerful  ? 
Because  he  was  the  exact  echo  of  the  age  in  which  he  lived,  of 
its  levity,  licentiousness,  enervation,  blasphemy,  mockery,  shal- 
low science,  sham  philanthropy,  and  intense  and  stupidly  reck- 
less selfishness.  He  did  not  originate  the  Revolution  ;  far  from 
it,  but,  if  he  had  been  a  better  man,  the  unquestioned  advan- 
tages of  that  great  upheaval  would  not  have  been  almost  counter- 
balanced by  its  unquestioned  horrors,  from  the  consequences  of 
ivhich  we  are  suffering  even  at  the  present  day. 

Here  is  Victor  Hugo's  opinion  on  the  merits  of  "  King  Vol- 
taire." 

"  Voltaire  leaves  us  a  monument  more  astonishing  by  its  ex- 
tent than  imposing  by  its  grandeur.  It  is  not  an  edifice  of  the 
august  order.  It  is  no  palace  for  kings,  it  is  no  hospital  for  the 
poor.  It  is  a  bazar,  elegant,  vast,  easily  moved  through,  irregular ; 
displaying  untold  riches  flung  on  mud-heaps  ;  offering  to  every 
interest,  to  every  vanity,  to  every  passion  the  very  thing  that  suits 
it  best ;  dazzling  to  the  eye,  but  rank  to  the  nostril ;  presenting 
impurities  as  pleasures  ;  aliVe  with  merchants,  tramps,  idlers,  but 
seldom  showing  a  priest  or  a  poor  workingman.  Here  are  splen- 
did galleries  thronged  incessantly  with  wonder-lost  crowds ;  there 
are  dark  caverns  which  nobody  boasts  of  having  ever  visited. 
Under  those  sumptuous  arcades  you  can  find  countless  master- 
pieces of  art  and  taste,  glittering  with  gold  and  diamonds  ;  but 
for  the  bronze  statue,  with  the  severe  and  classic  forms  of  an 
tiquity,  you  may  look  in  vain.     Decorations  for  your  parlors 


DELLE  SEDIE.  223 

and  boudoirs  you  will  find  in  abundance,  but  no  ornament  for 
your  sanctuary,  for  your  oratory.  And  woe  to  the  weak  man 
who  has  nothing  but  his  soul  to  lose,  if  he  exposes  it  to  the 
seductions  of  this  magnificent  abode,  of  this  monstrous  temple 
in  which  everything  is  thought  of  except  truth,  and  everything 
worshipped  except  God  !  " 

Note  38  — DELLE  SEDIE  — page  42. 

Enrico  C.  A.  Delle  Sedie   (1826 ),  Italian   barytone 

singer  of  some  note,  appeared  at  Rome  and  Milan  in  1857,  at 
Vienna  in  i860,  and  in  1861  at  Paris  where  he  succeeded  Gra- 
ziani  who  had  gone  to  St.  Petersburg.  After  holding  the  posi- 
tion of  Professor  in  the  Conservatoire  for  some  time  he  started 
a  singing-school  of  his  own  with  great  success.  His  favorite 
part  is  Re7iato  in  the  Ballo  in  Maschero.  His  Art  Lyriquc  has 
been  adopted  as  a  text-book  in  the  conservatories  of  St.  Peters- 
burg, Bologna,  Parma,  etc. 

Note  39  -  MADAME  TALMA  —  page  44. 

Cecile  C.  Vanhove  (1771-1860),  born  at  the  Hague,  daughter 
of  a  French  comedian,  was  one  of  the  most  remarkable  actresses 
of  her  day.  Tragedy,  comedy,  farce  were  all  equally  within  the 
bounds  of  her  domain.  She  made  her  debut  in  the  Thcatre- 
Fran<;ais  as  Iphegenie  in  Racine's  play  with  immense  success 
though  only  fourteen  years  of  age.  She  married  Talma  in  1802, 
and  abandoned  the  stage  in  181 1  before  the  rising  star  of  Made- 
moiselle Mars.  She  devoted  the  rest  of  her  life  to  writing  Me- 
moires,  Souvenirs  de  Tahna  (after  his  death),  Studies  on  the 
Theatrical  Arts,  which  are  highly  instructive  and  interesting, 
especially  to  actors. 

Note  40  — LEMERCIER  — page  44. 

Nepomuc^ne  Louis  Lemercier  (i 771-1840),  a  poet  and  dra- 
matic author  of  great  power  and  originality,  wrote  a  play  at 
16- which  his  godmother  the  Princess  de  Lamballe  interested 
herself  so  much  in  as  to  have  it  performed  in  the  Theatre- Fran- 
fats.     Though  a  great  lover  of  liberty  and  independence,  the 


224  NOTES. 

Revolution  found  him  only  a  weak  democrat.  His  Tarttife 
Rk'-oolutiontiaire  (1795)  was  considered  so  reactionary  as  to  be 
suppressed  by  the  Directory,  but  Agamemnon  his  master-piece, 
was  played  with  immense  success  in  1797,  and  it  still  remains 
one  of  the  best  pieces  on  the  classic  stage.  His  comedy  Pinto, 
also  a  success,  deserves  especial  mention  ;  though  to  all  intents 
and  purposes  a  tragedy,  the  dialogue  all  through  is  prose,  the 
prestige  and  other  allurements  of  poetry  being  rigidly  excluded. 
Lemercier,  therefore,  though  the  romanticists  do  not  recognize 
him  and  though  he  violently  disavows  their  doctrines  himself, 
is  really  the  father  of  the  Romantic  school.  Other  innovations 
of  his,  however,  gave  the  public  but  little  satisfaction,  neither 
his  taste  nor  his  style  being  always  correct,  though  he  is  gen- 
erally striking  and  original.  During  the  Consulate  he  was  a 
friend  of  Napoleon's  and  received  from  him  the  cross  of  the 
Legion  of  Honor,  but  on  Napoleon's  accession  to  the  throne  he 
sent  it  back  with  thanks,  and  acted  with  the  same  frankness 
at  the  Restoration.  He  was  elected  to  the  Academy  in  18 19. 
Though  an  incessant  worker,  he  was  so  singularly  pleasant  in 
social  intercourse  that  Talleyrand  pronounced  him  to  be  the  best 
talker  in  France.  On  his  tomb  is  the  following  inscription  com- 
posed by  himself: 

He  was  a  good  man  and  he  cultivated  literature. 

The  number  of  his  works  is  immense  and  they  are  all  re- 
markable. His  Panhypocrisiade  is  perhaps  the  greatest ;  it  is 
a  satirical  comedy,  remarkably  bold  in  thought,  expression, 
learning,  and  imagination,  but  in  spite  of  its  immense  genius  it 
is  to-day  little  known  and  never  read. 

Note  41  —  POTIER—  page  51. 

('harles  Gabriel  Potier  (1775-1838),  a  celebrated  comic 
actor,  left  school  when  a  mere  boy  to  join  the  army.  On  his 
return  to  Paris,  feeling  a  strong  predilection  for  the  stage,  he 
applied  for  a  position,  but  the  manager  laughed  at  himj  saying 
he  had  neither  person  nor  voice.  Noway  discouraged,  how- 
ever, he  played  in  the  provinces  with  great  success,  but  he  was 


MONVEL.  225 

more  than  thirty  before  he  became  a  favorite  with  the  Parisian 
public.  Though  he  never  played  in  the  Theatre- Fran(;ais  he 
may  be  considered  without  exaggeration  to  be  one  of  the  greatest 
comic  actors  of  the  day,  his  gaiety,  originality,  intelligence  and 
his  whole  style  of  acting  fully  compensating  for  the  extreme 
weakness  of  his  voice.  Among  his  best  roles  are  The  Elderly 
Young  Man,  and  the  Burgomaster  of  Saardam. 

Note  42  —  MONVEL  —  page  51. 

Jacques  Marie  Boutet,  surnamed  de  Monvel  (1745-181 1), 
actor  and  dramatic  poet,  played  at  the  Thedtre-Fran^ais  with 
great  success  from  1770  to  1781,  assisting  Mole  and  occasion- 
ally replacing  him,  though  very  far  indeed  from  possessing  the 
natural  graces  and  the  brilliant  prestige  of  that  renowned  actor. 
At  Lekain's  death  (1778),  he  attempted  the  highest  tragic  roles, 
but  the  weak  state  of  his  health  soon  sent  him  back  to  what  he 
was  best  suited  for.  Expelled  from  France  in  1781  for  some 
cause  not  well  known,  he  was  well  received  by  the  King  of 
Sweden,  who  made  him  his  reader  and  one  of  his  chief  players. 
Sometime  after  his  return  to  Paris,  he  collected  together  in  what 
was  then  called  the  Theatre  de  la  Republique ,  now  the  Thedtre- 
Frangais,  many  of  the  old  actors  that  had  been  dispersed  by  the 
troubles  of  the  Revolution.  His  success  even  in  his  old  age 
was  remarkable.  In  fact,  this  actor,  probably  one  of  the  most 
intelligent  that  ever  trod  the  boards,  would  have  undoubtedly 
risen  to  the  highest  excellence  if  his  personal  advantages  had 
even  tolerably  corresponded  with  his  wonderful  genius  and  his 
profound  knowledge  of  the  art.  It  was  of  Monvel  that  Made- 
moiselle Clairon  said :  "  An  Achilles  is  announced  to  us,  or  a 
Hector,  or  some  other  dauntless  hero  whose  valiant  arm  has  just 
achieved  a  famous  victory  over  enemies  numbering  at  least  ten 
to  one ;  or  it  is  some  dazzling  prince  for  whom  a  charming 
princess  has  just  sacrificed  her  throne  and  her  life.  But  what 
do  we  see  ?  A  little  man,  lank,  meagre,  and  hardly  able  to 
speak  !  How  do  you  expect  us  to  maintain  the  illusion  ?  "  But 
Monvel  managed  to  maintain  it.  In  pathos  particularly  he  has 
never  been  surpassed.     His  whole  face  was  lit  by  his  eyes, 

P 


226  NOTES. 

which  were  very  large  and  expressive.  In  spite  of  the  loss  of 
his  teeth,  his  solid  knowledge  of  the  value  of  words,  his  con- 
stant attention  to  clear  articulation,  his  perfect  acquaintance 
with  stage  detail,  soon  reconciled  the  spectators  to  his  physical 
defects.  To  the  double  talent  of  author  and  actor  he  added 
that  of  being  the  most  seductive  of  readers.  This  his  fellow 
actors  knew  well.  He  had  so  often  palmed  off  poor  stuff  on 
them  as  something  really  excellent  that  they  would  never  allow 
him  to  read  a  new  piece  that  was  submitted  for  their  judgment. 
His  plays,  now  mostly  forgotten,  obtained  him  a  seat  in  the 
Academy  and  a  professorship  in  the  Conservatoire.  His  best 
work,  however,  was  his  daughter  and  pupil,  the  famous  Made- 
moiselle Mars,  who  always  went  by  her  mother's  name. 

Note  43  —  ANDRIEUX  —  page  51. 

Francois  G.  J.  S.  Andrieux  (i 759-1833),  a  celebrated  man 
of  letters,  dramatic  author,  tribune,  professor.  Academician,  and 
finally  perpetual  secretary  of  the  French  Academy.  When  a 
member  of  the  Council  of  500  he  wrote  an  extensive  treatise  on 
Public  Instruction,  in  which  he  severely  condemned  the  idea  of 
making  every  one  a  scholar  ;  one  simple,  fairly  instructed  man, 
he  says,  having  good  common  sense,  is  better  than  a  thousand 
half-philosophers.  It  was  he  who,  when  charged  by  Bonaparte 
with  factious  resistance  to  the  Code,  uttered  the  famous  saying : 
"Citizen  Consul,  we  can  lean  only  o?i  what  resists  f  His  first 
comedy  yf2iS  Anaximandre  (1782),  but  his  best  known  drama 
is  Les  Etourdis.  He  also  composed  some  charming  poems, 
his  Meunier  de  Sans  Souci,  and  Protneiiade  de  Fenelon  being 
still  as  popular  as  any  of  La  Fontaine's  fables.  While  pro- 
fessor, though  his  voice  was  feeble,  he  always  made  himself 
heard  by  his  wit,  grace,  and  urbanity,  his  favorite  motto  being, 
we  must  please  if  we  expect  to  instruct. 

Note  44  — BOUFFE— page  52. 

Marie  Bouff^  (1800 ),  famous  melodramatic  actor,  born 

in  Paris,  son  of  a  decoration  painter,  passed  half  his  childhood 


thIlATRe-francais.  227 

at  school  half  in  the  street,  and  his  boyhood  in  the  small  the- 
atres. His  success  at  the  Nouveaiites  theatre  in  1827  estab* 
hshed  his  reputation.  From  1831  onwards  he  enjoyed  manj 
imquestioned  triumphs  in  such  pieces  as  The  Miser's  Daughter, 
Poor  yames,  The  Strolling  Players,  The  Gamin  of  Paris,  etc. 
He  was  wonderfully  real.  It  was  not  Bouffe  you  saw  on  the 
stage,  but  some  simple  old  priest,  some  audacious  street  Arab, 
some  grasping  hooked-nose  miser.  He  was  a  real  comedian,  ex- 
citing at  will  the  laughter  or  the  tears  of  the  audience,  and  often 
displaying  touches  of  character  that  bordered  on  the  highest 
art.  He  retired  at  64,  his  benefit  in  the  Grand  Opera  house, 
ceded  to  him  expressly  by  Napoleon  III.,  realized  upwards  of  five 
thousand  dollars.     He  never  played  in  the  Theatre- Fran^ais. 

Note  45  —  TH^ATRE-FRANQAIS,  otherwise   C0M£DIE  FRAN9AISE— 

page  53-      - 

The«  origin  of  this  famoiis^theatre  dates  back  to  1 580  when 
the  Confreres  of  the  Passion  sold  the  Hotel  Bourgogne,  in  the 
Rue  Mauconseil,  the  former  residence  of  the  last  Duke  of  Bur- 
gundy, to  the  only  regular  actors  at  that  time  in  Paris,  called 
the  Troupe  Royale  and  paid  by  the  King  a  yearly  subsidy  of 
12,000  livres.  Towards  1600  another  but  smaller  theatre  was 
started  in  the  quarter  of  Paris  called  the  Marais  and  thence 
took  its  name.  These  were  the  only  theatres  in  Paris,  besides 
the  Petit-Boiirbon  where  only  Italians  played,  in  1658,  when 
Moliere  arrived  with  his  troupe  from  the  provinces.  This  troupe, 
first  surnamed  de  Monsieur  and  afterwards  du  Roi,  received  a 
subsidy  of  7000  livres  and  acted  in  the  Palais  Royal  theatre 
erected  by  Cardinal  Richelieu.  As  long  as  Moliere  lived  he 
struggled  very  successfully  against  his  rivals  but,  at  his  death 
(1673),  his  best  actors  joined  the  Bourgogne  troupe,  and  the 
others  united  with  the  Marais  troupe  in  a  new  theatre  in  the 
Rue  Mazarine,  the  Marais  theatre  being  demolished,  and  the 
Palais  Royal  given  over  to  the  Italians.  The  new  combination, 
having  the  sole  right  to  represent  Moliere's  and  many  of  Cor- 
ncille's  plays,  and  therefore  proving  a  serious  injury  to  the  elder 
comedians,  a  stroke  of  Louis  XIV. 's  pen  united  the  three  com- 


228  NOTES. 

panics  into  one  (1680),  thus  creating  the  Tnif^TRE-FRANgAls 

or  COMfeDIE  FRANgAISE. 

This  and  the  French  Academy  are  the  only  institutions  of  the 
ancient  regijne  that  have  survived  the  French  Revolution.  To- 
day, nearly  two  centuries  old,  it  is  stronger  than  ever.  Its  priv- 
ileges are  so  great  that  it  has  never  had  a  real  rival,  being 
always  first  in  tragedy  and  first  in  comedy. 

The  company  soon  removed  to  more  commodious  quarters 
in  the  street  still  called  the  Rue  de  V Ancienne  Comedie,  where 
it  remained  for  more  than  80  years,  playing  among  others  the 
works  of  Regnard,  Crebillon,  Voltaire,  Diderot  and  Beaumar- 
chais.  The  building  getting  too  old,  the  company  took  refuge 
in  the  Tuileries  theatre,  lent  to  them  by  the  King,  till  1782,  when 
they  installed  themselves  in  their  large  new  theatre,  still  in  ex- 
istence, called  the  Odeon.  The  Revolution  attacked  the  The- 
atre-FratK^ais  as  well  as  everything  else  ;  some  of  its  members 
with  Monvel  at  their  head  raised  the  tricolor,  but  many  were 
put  in  prison  for  contumacy  and  the  company  generally  was 
broken  up  for  nine  years.  In  1799,  ^^  '^'^'^  reconstructed  by 
Napoleon,  and  the  Odeon  being  partially  injured  by  fire,  the 
Comedie  Frangaise  was  transferred  to  the  Varietes  theatre  in 
the  Rue  Richelieu,  where  the  Theatre- Frangais  has  remained 
ever  since. 

The  company  existing  to-day  dates  from  the  act  of  1799, 
modified  by  Napoleon's  "  Moscow  Decree"  in  1812,  and  by  a  few 
others,  one  as  late  as  1859.  ^^  receives  a  yearly  subsidy  of  sixty 
thousand  dollars  and,  though  allowed  a  great  deal  of  liberty, 
its  regulations  are  controlled  by  the  State.  It  has  22  societaires 
or  associates,  each  of  whom  receives  his  share  of  the  profits  and, 
when  too  old,  retires  on  a  pension.  The  company  consists,  be- 
sides, of  a  number  of  salaried  actors,  from  whom  the  associates 
are  mainly  recruited.  It  forbids  tragedy  in  any  other  theatre, 
and  can  claim  whatever  eleve  of  the  Co7iservatoire  it  considers 
promising.  In  return  for  all  this,  it  is  expected  to  present 
tragedy  and  comedy  in  the  most  correct  and  finished  style  both 
personal  and  scenic,  and  so  far  the  world  acknowledges  that 
it  has  faithfully  complied  with  its  obligations.     "  The  Theatre* 


ALTZARD.  229 

Fran^ais  is  the  glory  of  France,"  said  Napoleon,  "the  Opera  is 
only  her  vanity." 

Note  46  —  ALIZARD  —  page  56. 

Adolphe  J.  L.  Alizard  (1814-1859),  a  distinguished  singer, 
made  his  debut  as  Gessler  in  Guil/aume  Tell  at  the  Grand  Opera 
in  1837.  He  played  with  great  success  the  chief  bass  parts  in 
Robert  Le  Diable,  Der  Freischiltz,  Les  Huguenots,  La  FavoritA 
a.nd  Le  Prophete. 

Note  47  — SCRIBE  — page  60. 

Aug.  Eugene  Scribe  (1791-1861),  one  of  the  best  known 
dramatic  authors  of  the  century,  born  in  Paris,  the  son  of  a  re- 
spectable silk  merchant,  left  an  orphan  when  quite  young,  pur- 
sued quite  an  advanced  course  of  studies  at  the  College  of 
Sainte  Barbe  with  great  success,  to  please  his  guardian  who 'ex- 
pected him  to  become  a  lawyer.  But  his  propensity  for  the 
stage  being  too  strong  to  be  resisted,  his  legal  studies  were  soon 
abandoned  for  dramatic  composition.  After  a  few  failures, 
which  his  income  of  about  2000  dollars  a,  year  enabled  him  to 
endure  with  stoic  patience,  his  jaunty  liveliness  at  last  succeeded 
in  catching  the  favor  of  the  Parisians  even  in  those  terrible  years 
1812,  '13  and  '14.  From  1815  to  1830  his  successes  in  light  one- 
act  comedies  interspersed  with  singing,  commonly  called  vau^ 
devilles,  produced  usually  with  some  collaborateur  and  generally 
performed  at  the  Varietes,  the  Vaudeville,  and  from  1820  at  the 
Gymnase  for  which  he  was  engaged  to  write  exclusively,  were 
almost  innumerable.  He  made  the  fortune  of  the  Gymnase  the- 
atre in  a  few  years,  securing  for  himself  also  an  elegant  com- 
petence, the  cross  of  the  Legion  of  Honor,  and  a  European 
reputation. 

The  July  Revolution  sobering  Paris  a  little,  he  dropped  the 
vaudevilles  and,  attempting  a  higher  flight,  produced  five-act 
plays  historical,  satirical,  even  tragical,  many  of  which  were 
received  with  great  distinction  at  the  Theatre- Fran fais.  In- 
vading the  stage  in  all  directions,  he  wrote  the  librettos  and 
superintended  the  7nise  en  scene  of  nearly  all  the  great  operas  of 
the  French  stage.  These  librettos  were  usually  done  with  care 
20 


230  NOTES. 

taste  and  finish  ;  in  La  Muette  de  Portici,  Robert  Le  Diahlc,  Les 
Huguenots,  Dame  Blanche ,  Masajiiello,  L  Etoile  du  Nord,  Les 
Diamants  de  la  Coicronne,  Le  Prophete,  Fra  Diavolo,  Les  Ve- 
pres  Siciliennes,  and  L Africaine  the  literary  merit  is  often  quite 
on  a  par  with  the  fine  music.  With  Legouve,  as  already  men- 
tioned, he  wrote  Adrienne,  La  Bataille  des  Dames,  Les  Doigts 
de  Fee,  and  L^s  Contes  de  la  Peine  de  Navarre.  For  more  than 
forty  years  his  popularity  was  immense,  many  of  his  pieces 
being  as  well  known  in  other  countries  as  in  France.  He  was 
elected  Member  of  the  French  Academy  in  1834. 

His  success  was  certainly  well  deserved.  For  depth,  strength, 
breadth  or  individuahty  he  cannot  be  compared  to  the  old  mas- 
ters nor  even  to  many  writers  for  the  modern  French  stage. 
High  comedy  he  certainly  could  not  reach,  but  he  was  an  im- 
mense improvement  on  what  was  called  light  French  comedy 
down  to  181 5.  His  pieces,  no  doubt,  may  be  called  superficial, 
difficult  to  be  read  a  second  time,  glorifying  material  interests, 
and  calculated  to  amuse  the  shallow,  the  idle  and  the  gay  hab- 
itue of  the  Boulevards  rather  than  the  thoughtful  man  of  the 
nineteenth  century.  That  may  be,  but  neither  can  it  be  denied 
that  Scribe's  pieces,  amounting  to  more  than  400,  though  some- 
times betraying  undue  haste,  are  always  remarkable  for  their 
perfect  adaptation  to  the  stage,  their  interesting  and  original 
plot,  their  sparkling  and  often  eloquent  dialogue,  their  rapid 
movement,  varied  incident,  correct  taste,  general  decency, 
pleasant  denoument,  power  to  hold  the  attention  of  the  audi- 
ence, and  their  invariable  fidelity  to  nature.  In  fact,  his  bril- 
liant colonels,  his  rich  old  uncles,  his  growling  but  good-natured 
old  fathers,  his  interesting  widows,  his  innocent  but  piquant 
young  ladies,  his  sentimental  mothers,  his  whole  world  of  gaiety, 
life  and  bourgeois  heartiness  were  a  perfect  reproduction  of  the 
foibles,  fashions  and  aspirations  of  the  middle-class  Parisians 
It  the  Re'storation.  In  the  art  of  constructing  a  light  efferves- 
cent vaudeville ,  always  amusing  and  at  the  same  time  giving  us 
a  correct  delineation  of  bourgeoisie  life.  Scribe  is  a  master  that 
has  never  been  surpassed. 

Busy  as  ever  to  the  last  moment,  in  the  seventieth  year  of  his 


BRID'OISON.  231 

ag^e,  he  was  riding  one  evening  in  his  carriage  to  keep  a  business 
engagement  when  the  coachman,  opening  the  door,  found  only 
a  corpse  occupying  the  seat.  He  had  died  of  apoplexy,  with- 
out a  moment's  warning. 

Note  48  —  BRID'OISON  —  page  60. 

Brid'oison  is  a  stuttering,  stammering,  ridiculous  Judge,  in 
Beaumarchais's  famous  Mariage  de  Figaro,  the  real  prologue  of 
the  Revolution.  Brid'oison  has  continued  to  the  present  day 
with  good  reason  to  be  the  type  of  a  stupid,  ignorant,  formal 
judge,  of  the  kind  Dickens  gives  us  a  specimen  of  in  Mr.  Jus- 
tice Stareleigh. 

Note  49  —  LAFON  —  page  72. 

Pierre  Lafon  (i 773-1 846),  a  tragic  actor  second  only  to 
Talma,  a  Gascon,  disregarding  his  father's  advice  who  wished 
him  to  be  a  doctor,  joined  a  strolling  provincial  troupe  when 
quite  young  and,  coming  to  Paris  in  1800,  appeared  in  the  The- 
atre-Frangais,  just  then  opened,  as  Achilles,  in  Iphigenia  in 
Aulis  with  the  most  complete  success.  His  fine  person,  hand- 
some face,  and  good  voice  contributed  considerably  towards  his 
popularity  ;  even  his  super-refined  dignity  and  grand  way  of 
doing  the  most  trifling  things,  which  the  wits  so  often  "  went 
for,"  were  not  unattractive  to  his  female"  admirers.  Faithful  to 
the  classic  school,  he  quitted  the  stage  in  1829  before  the  in- 
vasion of  the  Romanticists,  his  farewell  benefit  netting  him 
$3000,  and  his  retiring  pension  as  associate  of  the  Frafi^ais 
bringing  him  $1 500  a  year.  His  favorite  characters  were  Achil- 
les, in  which  even  Talma  hardly  surpassed  him,  and  Orosinane 
in  Voltaire's  Zaire. 

Note  493^— COQUELIN  —page  74. 

Beno!t  Constant  Coquelin  (1841 ),  one  of  the  bright- 
est stars  of  the  modern  Theatre- Frant^ais,  entered  the  Consetva- 
toire  in  1859,  taking  lessons  from  Regnier,  and  made  his  debut 
In  i860  in  Le  Dtpit  Amoureux  of  Moliere  with  some  success, 
but  the  style  in  which,  two  years  later,  he  played  Beaumar- 
chais's briUiant  and  exceedingly  difficult  creation  Figaro  took 


232  NOTES. 

Paris  completely  by  surprise  and  made  him  a  celebrity  at  the 
age  of  twenty-one.  His  precocity,  however,  did  not  injure  his 
industry,  his  successful  roles  to-day  being  too  many  to  be 
enumerated.  He  has  a  fine  figure,  great  intelligence,  and  one 
of  the  most  magnificent  voices  of  the  day.  Since  1864  he  has 
been  sociktaire  of  the  Theatre- Frajigais.  He  is  surnamed  raine 
(the  elder)  to  distinguish  him  from  a  younger  brother  who  is 
also  an  actor. 

Note  50 — JOMINI  —  page  75. 

Henri,  Baron  Jomini  (1779-1869),  general  and  famous  mil- 
itary critic,,  was  born  in  Switzerland  ;  he  studied  arms  when 
young  with  the  intention  of  entering  the  Swiss  Body  Guards, 
but  the  Revolution  rendering  this  impossible,  he  entered  a 
banking-house  in  Paris  and  remained  there  for  some  time. 
Returning  in  1798  to  Switzerland,  at  that  time  a  French  prov- 
ince, he  succeeded  in  pleasing  the  authorities  so  well  that  he 
was  soon  made  general  secretary  of  the  war  department.  In 
1804,  he  joined  the  French  army  as  chef  de  bataillon,  followed 
Ney  to  Germany  as  aide-de-camp,  and  placed  in  Napoleon's 
own  hands  on  the  battle-field  of  Austerlitz  his  great  strategic 
work  a  Treatise  on  the  Grand  Operations  of  the  War.  His  dis- 
tinguished services  in  the  war  with  Prussia  promoted  him  to  be 
the  chief  of  Ney's  staff,  with  the  title  of  Baron.  He  followed 
Ney  into  Spain,  but  the  Marshal,  being  informed  that  his  aide- 
de-camp  attributed  to  himself  all  the  successes  of  the  campaign, 
became  so  angry  that  he  dismissed  him  from  the  service.  The 
Emperor  of  Russia  instantly  offered  him  a  high  position,  but 
Napoleon  would  not  allow  him  to  enter  the  Russian  service 
and  attached  him  to  Berthier's  staff  with  the  grade  of  general. 
Deeply  hurt  at  this  treatment,  Jomini  positively  refused  to  bear 
arms  actively  against  Russia,  though  he  was  unsparing  in  his 
exertions  towards  relieving  the  suffering  French  army  in  its 
disastrous  retreat.  Becoming  reconciled  with  Ney  and  once 
more  put  at  the  head  of  his  staff,  he  contributed  so  signally 
towards  winning  the  victory  of  Bautzen  that  Ney  strongly 
recommended  his  immediate  nomination  as  general  of  divi- 
sion, but  Berthier,  yielding  to  some  petty  spite,  had  him  placed 


D'AURE.  233 

under  temporary  arrest  for  some  trifling  or  pretended  infrac- 
tion of  discipline. 

Unable  to  endure  such  an  indignity,  Jomini  took  advantage 
of  an  armistice  to  leave  the  French  camp  and  offer  his  sword  to 
the  Emperor  of  Russia  at  the  very  moment  when  the  traitor 
Moreau  joined  the  Allied  Armies  in  their  attack  on  his  native 
land.  Sentence  of  death  was  instantly  passed  on  him  as  a  de- 
serter. The  two  cases  have  often  been  confounded  by  historians, 
but  they  are  radically  different.  "  Jomini  was  no  traitor  to  his 
flag,"  writes  Napoleon  at  Saint  Helena;  "smarting  under  a 
great  injustice,  he  was  blinded  by  what  was  after  all  only  an 
honorable  sentiment ;  besides  he  was  no  Frenchman,  and  there- 
fore not  bound  to  us  by  any  laws  of  patriotism."  Though  re- 
ceived with  open  arms  by  the  Russian  Emperor  and  appointed 
aide-de-camp  with  grade  of  general  of  division,  he  neither  be- 
trayed his  knowledge  of  the  French  plans  nor  took  active  part 
in  the  invasion  of  France,  confining  his  exertions  principally 
to  preventing  the  Allies  from  committing  blunders,  and  saving 
Switzerland  from  Austrian  rapacity.  In  181 5,  he  made  every 
effort,  but  in  vain,  to  save  the  life  of  his  old  commander  Ney, 
and  remained  in  Paris  till  1822  to  superintend  the  pubhcation 
of  his  military  works.  Returning  to  Russia,  he  performed  the 
duties  of  military  preceptor  to  the  Grand  Duke,  organizer  of  the 
Imperial  Military  Academy,  and  military  adviser  to  the  Em- 
peror till  1830,  when  he  retired,  first  to  Brussels  and  then  to 
Paris,  devoting  the  rest  of  his  life  to  his  numerous  works  on 
military  criticism. 

The  value  of  these  works  to  the  military  student  is  exceed- 
ingly high,  no  strategist  surpassing  Jomini  in  breadth  of  view 
or  in  clearness  of  convincing  demonstration.  His  character 
for  integrity  and  independence  stands  quite  as  high  ;  in  pres- 
ence of  his  superiors  he  always  maintained  a  most  dignified 
attitude,  never  quailing  before  the  mighty  Napoleon  himself. 

Note  51  —  D' AURE  —  page  75. 

CoMTE  d'Aure  (died  in  1863),  was  for  some  time  the  head 
riding-master  of  the  celebrated  Cavalry  School  of  Sauinur  on  the 


234  NOTES. 

Loire,  and  afterwards  manager  of  a  government  horse-raising 
establishment.  His  writings  on  horsemanship,  etc.,  are  held  in 
high  esteem.  His  principal  works  are  :  A  Treatise  on  Equita- 
tion, \^\\h plates,  etc.  (1834) ;  Horses  in  Paris  (1835)  ;  Practical 
Ideas  regarding  the  Employment  of  Horse-labor  (1840). 

Note  52  —  THE  ASSEMBLY  —  page  76. 

According  to  theJaw  of  February,  1875,  ^^  legislative  power 
of  France  is  vested  in  two  Assemblies,  one  called  the  Chamber 
of  Deputies,  and  the  other  the  Senate.  The  Deputies,  about 
50U  in  number,  are  elected  directly  by  the  people,  every  French- 
man twenty-one  years  of  age  being  entitled  to  vote.  The  Se7t- 
ate  consists  of  300  members,  of  whom  225  are  elected  by  the 
departments  and  colonies,  and  the  other  75  by  the  National 
Assembly.  This  National  Assembly,  consisting  of  both  the 
Assemblies  united  into  one  body,  also  elects  the  President  of 
the  Republic  by  an  absolute  majority  of  votes.  The  President's 
term  is  seven  years,  and  he  is  re-eligible.  He  announces  the 
laws  and  is  responsible  for  their  execution.  He  can  grant  an 
individual  pardon  but  not  a  general  amnesty.  He  is  the  com- 
mander-in-chief of  the  army,  and  appoints  to  all  offices,  civil 
and  military.  With  the  advice  of  the  Senate  he  can  dissolve 
the  Chajnber  of  Deputies  at  pleasure.  His  ministers  are  re- 
sponsible to  the  Chambers  for  the  general  policy  of  the  govern- 
ment, but  the  President  himself  is  responsible  only  in  case  of 
high  treason. 

Note  53  — BOSSUET  — page  77. 

Jacques  Benigne  Bossuet  (i 627-1 704),  the  most  celebrated 
of  French  orators  and  prelates,  born  of  an  honorable  family  in 
Burgundy,  received  his  early  education  in  the  Jesuit  college  of 
Dijon,  where  he  showed  himself  from  his  tenderest  years  ex- 
tremely docile,  industrious,  singularly  intelligent,  and  rather  of 
a  serious  disposition.  He  learned  Greek  and  Latin  with  little 
trouble.  Homer  and  Virgil  being  his  favorite  authors,  but  the 
book  that  he  loved  best  of  all  was  the  Bible,  a  small  Latin  copy 
of  which  fell  into  his  hands  when  quite  a  boy  and  which  he 
may  be  said  to  have  got  completely  by  heart.     "  Bossuet,"  says 


BOSSUET.  235 

Lamartine,  "  was  the  Bible  transfused  into  a  man."  He  com- 
pleted his  studies  in  Paris,  arriving  there  on  the  very  day  (1642) 
when  Richelieu  made  his  famous  entry  into  the  capital  for  the 
last  time,  dying,  but  triumphant  over  Cinq  Mars  and  the  ene- 
mies of  France.  Navarre  College  in  which  Bossuet  was  placed 
was  at  that  time  directed  by  Cornet,  a  man  highly  remarkable 
for  piety  and  learning,  who,  at  once  divining  the  boy's  genius, 
took  especial  care  to  cultivate  it. 

Here  the  young  ecclesiastic  applied  himself  with  enthusiasm 
to  his  new  studies  and  soon  achieved  great  distinction  in  classics, 
sacred  literature,  and  philosophy,  though  showing  little  or  no 
taste  for  mathematics  and  the  natural  sciences.  At  sixteen  he 
sustained  his  thesis  in  such  a  brilliant  style  that  even  the  famous 
Hotel  Rauibouillet,  a  society  at  that  time  representing  the  cream 
of  Parisian  wit,  beauty,  virtue  and  nobility,  expressed  a  strong 
desire  to  see  the  young  prodigy.  They  even  asked  him  to  preach 
an  extempore  sermon  in  their  presence ;  after  a  short  med- 
itation, he  complied  with  their  request  in  a  manner  that  com- 
manded their  entire  sympathy  and  admiration.  Unspoiled, 
however,  by  such  flatteries,  he  devoted  himself  with  renewed 
ardor  to  his  favorite  studies,  and  at  21  graduated  with  a  dis- 
course so  eloquent  that  the  great  general  Conde  who  was  pres- 
ent recalled  it  with  admiration  and  delight  as  long  as  he  lived. 
In  1652,  after  a  solemn  retreat  at  St.  Lazare  Church  conducted 
by  St.  Vincent  de  Paul  himself,  Bossuet  was  ordained  priest  and, 
resisting  the  dazzling  career  offered  to  him  in  Paris,  at  once 
abandoned  the  splendid  capital  to  devote  himself  to  his  modest 
duties  as  an  humble  pastor  in  Metz. 

Here  for  seventeen  years  he  devoted  every  spare  moment  to 
his  favorite  studies,  the  Bible,  Saint  Augustin  and  the  Fathers 
generally,  one  of  the  fruits  of  which  was  soon  seen  in  a  Reply 
written  by  him  in  answer  to  a  Refonned  Catechism,  composed 
by  Paul  Ferry,  a  Protestant  minister  highly  esteemed  in  Metz 
for  learning  and  uprightness.  Bossuet's  book  had  an  extra- 
ordinary success  even  among  the  Protestants  themselves,  who 
were  then  very  numerous  in  that  part  of  France.  Ecclesiastical 
matters  often  bringing  him  to  Paris  and  his  superiors  naturally 


236  NOTES. 

not  allowing  him  to  leave  the  city  without  preaching,  his  ser- 
mons soon  began  to  prove  an  irresistible  attraction,  "  City  and 
court  flocked  to  listen ;  the  two  queens  came  from  the  palace 
and  the  nuns  of  Port  Royal  from  their  seclusion  ;  Conde,  Tu- 
renne,  Madame  de  Sevigne  and  other  famous  contemporaries 
mingled  with  the  crowd ;  and  in  1662  the  preacher's  triumph 
reached  a  climax  when,  hearing  him  for  the  first  time  at  the 
Louvre,  Louis  XIV.,  in  a  moment  of  rarely  awakened  enthusi- 
asm, dispatched  a  royal  messenger  to  Bossuet's  father  to  con- 
gratulate him  on  having  such  a  son." 

Most  of  these  discourses  are  now  lost ;  few  of  them  indeed 
were  ever  written  out.  An  hour  or  two  before  entering  the  pul- 
pit, he  sat  quietly  meditating  over  his  text ;  he  scribbled  some 
hasty  notes  on  bits  of  paper,  mostly  appropriate  passages  from 
the  Fathers,  occasionally  writing  out  a  sentence  more  compli- 
cated than  usual ;  then  he  surrendered  himself  completely  to 
the  effect  produced  by  the  spur  of  the  moment  and  the  impres 
sion  made  on  his  audience. 

In  1669,  he  began  the  celebrated  Funeral  Orations,  usually 
reckoned  six  in  number,  of  which  the  critic  La  Harpe  says : 
"  They  are  masterpieces  of  a  species  of  eloquence  that  could 
have  had  no  model  in  antiquity,  and  which  have  never  since 
been  equalled.  In  them  Bossuet  does  not  employ  the  language 
of  other  men  ;  he  makes  a  language  of  his  own  ;  he  makes  it 
just  as  he  requires  it  so  as  to  suit  his  own  peculiar  manner  of 
feeling,  thinking,  and  uttering.  He  has  made  it  all :  expres- 
sions, turns,  movements,  constructions,  harmony,  all  are  his 
own."  Of  this  species  of  sacred  oratory  he  is  indeed  the  real 
creator;  nowhere  does  his  genius  take  such  wing  as  at  the 
grave's  mouth,  when,  recounting  the  virtues  of  the  illustrious 
dead,  he  pictures,  with  wonderful  sweep  of  imagination  and 
mastery  of  detail,  the  historical  events  and  personages  of  the 
epoch  in  which  they  lived,  the  more  impressively  to  demon- 
strate that  all  earthly  pomp  and  renown  are  shadows,  not  sub- 
stantial things. 

This  same  year  he  was  made  bishop  of  Condom,  in  Gasconyj 
but  on  being  shortly  afterwards  appointed  preceptor  to   the 


BOSSUET.  237 

Dauphin,  then  nine  years  old,  he  instantly, gave  up  a  bishopric 
which  his  conscience  would  not  allow  him  to  derive  any  emol- 
ument from  as  long  as  he  could  not  strictly  attend  to  his  duties. 
P^ully  believing  too  that  the  future  welfare  of  France  would 
probably  depend  in  a  great  measure  on  the  nature  of  the  edu- 
cation which  his  pupil  should  receive,  he  threw  himself  at  once 
with  incredible  energy  into  the  duties  of  his  preceptorship.  Bos- 
suet  probably  was  not  endowed  with  that  enchanting  natural 
sweetness  which  twenty  years  afterwards  gave  Fenelon  such 
sway  over  the  Dauphin's  son.  His  reason  was  so  direct,  de- 
cided, and  elevated,  his  sense  of  duty  was  so  profound  and 
uncompromising,  that  he  appears  to  have  almost  persuaded 
himself  that  nothing  more  was  necessary  than  to  tell  people 
what  they  had  to  do  in  order  to  get  them  to  do  it.  In  this,  how- 
ever, he  was  mistaken ;  he  knew  man,  but  he  did  not  know 
men.  His  success  as  an  educator  was  by  no  means  equal  to 
Fenelon's,  though  we  must  not  forget  that,  besides  being  rather 
old  when  entrusted  to  Bossuet,  the  Dauphin  was  indolent  and 
every  way  far  inferior  to  his  son  in  talents.  It  was  for -the  in- 
struction of  his  royal  pupil  that  Bossuet  composed,  among  other 
able  works,  an  Abridged  History  of  France,  a  Treatise  on  the 
Knowledge  of  God  and  of  Ourselves,  and  particularly  his  fa- 
mous Discourse  o?i  Universal  History ,  of  which  the  leading  idea  is 
to  show  that  all  changes  in  history  are  overruled  with  sole  refer- 
ence to  the  progress  and  universality  of  the  Christian  religion. 
The  first  attempt  at  a  philosophical  treatment  of  history,  it  is 
a  work  of  surpassing  power  and  learning,  his  friend  Leibnitz, 
the  celebrated  mathematician  and  philosopher,  forwarding  him 
from  Germany  every  book  bearing  on  the  subject  that  he  could 
lay  hands  on. 

In  1671,  he  was  elected  a  member  of  the  French  Academy. 
About  this  time  too  appeared  his  remarkable  Exposition  of 
Catholic  Doctrine  which  made  so  much  noise  in  those  days.  He 
had  at  first  printed  an  edition  of  only  ten  or  twelve  copies  in- 
tended for  private  distribution  among  his  friends,  each  of  whom 
he  requested  to  return  his  copy  with  whatever  notes  or  sugges- 
tions he  might  think  proper  to  write  on  the  margin.     All  were 


238  NOTES. 

returned  except  two  or  three,  among  which  was  that  sent  to 
Turenne,  the  Marshal  General  of  France,  who  not  only  kept 
his  copy  but  became  a  Catholic,  giving  up  the  reformed  religion 
in  which  he  had  been  born.  Some  of  the  Reformed  ministers, 
Daille,  Brueys,  Jurieu  and  others,  hearing  of  this,  and  charging 
the  Exposition  with  toning  down  the  harshness  of  the  Roman 
dogma  for  the  purpose  of  ensnaring  their  flocks,  Bossuet  deter- 
mined to  publish  it.  It  received  the  highest  approbation  at 
Rome ;  it  was  immediately  translated  into  all  the  European 
languages ;  and  it  produced  such  an  effect  on  the  Protestants 
themselves  that  many  of  them,  minister  Brueys  among  the 
number,  were  converted.  Jurieu,  its  ablest,  but  rather  irascible 
opponent,  writes  of  it :  "  Everybody  is  gone  mad  over  the  Ex- 
position ;  everywhere  one  hears  of  the  most  disgraceful  perver- 
sions." Mademoiselle  de  Duras,  a  niece  of  Turenne's  and  the 
sister  of  another  marshal  of  France,  having  begun  to  entertain 
from  the  reading  of  this  book  some  doubts  regarding  her  relig- 
ion, mentioned  the  matter  to  her  spiritual  director,  Jean  Claude, 
a  very  learned  divine  and  the  soul  of  the  reformed  party. 
Claude  assuring  her  that  a  few  hours'  oral  discussion  in  her 
presence  with  Bossuet  himself  on  the  authority  of  the  Church 
would  soon  rid  her  of  her  scruples,  Bossuet  at  once  accepted 
the  challenge,  always  preferring  a  face  to  face  encounter.  The 
discussion  lasted  five  hours  and  was  the  sensation  of  the  time ; 
it  ended,  as  usual,  in  the  regular  drawn  battle,  except  that  Made- 
moiselle de  Duras  next  day  renounced  her  Calvinism. 

Bossuet's  chief  recreation,  during  his  preceptorship,  was  the 
formation  of  a  literary,  philosophical,  and  religious  society  con- 
sisting of  some  of  the  first  scholars  of  the  day,  lay  and  clerical. 
Besides  discussing  every  interesting  subject  of  the  moment,  and 
submitting  to  the  society's  criticism  whatever  they  contemplated 
publishing,  the  members  made  it  a  regular  duty  to  take  some 
passage  in  the  Bible  and  read  for  the  others  whatever  reflec- 
tions, commentaries,  and  results  it  had  inspired.  The  better  to 
be  able  to  give  a  satisfactory  answer  to  the  thousand  and  one 
questions  continually  coming  up  here  for  discussion,  Bossuet 
contrived  to  find  time  to  study  Hebrew,  and  with  such  success 


BOSSUET.  239 

that  an  admirer  asserts  him  to  be  no  less  familiar  with  the  Ian 
guage  of  Moses  than  that  of  Homer.  His  intimate  relations 
with  the  court,  as  might  be  expected,  brought  his  stern  and 
severe  character  into  trouble  now  and  then.  But  he  never 
avoided  it.  In  the  courtier  he  never  forgot  the  bishop.  He  re 
monstra^ed  often  and  seriously  with  the  luxurious  but  almost 
omnipotent  monarch,  and  sometimes  even  succeeded  in  pro- 
ducing a  temporary  reform. 

The  education  of  the  Dauphin  being  ended  in  1681,  by  way 
of  recompense  Louis  had  Bossuet  appointed  to  the  see  of  Meaux. 
He  instantly  quitted  the  capital,  and  devoted  the  rest  of  his  life, 
heart  and  soul,  to  the  edification  of  his  flock  and  the  spiritual 
welfare  of  France.  He  again  resumed  his  great  sermons, 
though,  being  as  usual  practical  and  paternal,  he  never  wrote 
them  out ;  he  composed  numerous  pastorals  for  his  priests, 
pious  exhortations  for  his  nuns,  sound  instructions  for  the 
people,  and  a  child's  Catechism  for  the  rising  generation,  that 
is  still  highly  esteemed.  We  find  him  continually  visiting  the 
sick,  teaching  the  poor  to  be  patient,  directing  the  hospitals,  re- 
forming the  monasteries,  and  even  catechising  the  children  at 
Sunday-school. 

In  1682,  in  consequence  of  serious  disputes  between  the  King 
and  the  Court  of  Rome  regarding  the  regalia  or  the  claim  put 
forward  by  the  Crown  to  administer  the  affairs  of  a  vacant 
bishopric  until  such  time  as  the  new  occupant  would  take  the 
oath  of  fidelity,  the  French  bishops  held  a  great  assembly,  at 
which  Bossuet  pronounced  the  opening  discourse.  An  ardent 
Gallican  himself,  yet  seeing  the  heated  state  of  men's  minds, 
he  advised  the  adoption  of  moderate  counsels  both  by  the  Ultra- 
montanists  or  Catholic  party  and  the  Ultra-Gallicans  or  French 
party.  Being  overruled,  however,  he  was  compelled  to  sur- 
render, and  was  even  appointed  to  draw  up  the  famous  four 
propositions  that  until  lately  have  continued  to  be  the  state  law 
of  P>ance.  Louis  was  naturally  highly  pleased  with  them  as 
they  gave  him  the  right  to  interfere  in  church  matters,  but  the 
Pope,  fully  aware  of  the  evil  consequences  of  such  interference 
both  to  Church  and  State,  had  them  publicly  burned  in  Rome, 


240  NOTES. 

In  1688,  appeared  Bossuet's  greatest  controversial  work,  The 
History  of  the  Variations  of  the  Protestant  Churches,  in  which 
he  undertook  to  demonstrate  the  weakness  of  the  Reformed 
doctrines  by  contrasting  their  incoherencies  and  contradictions 
with  the  stability  of  Rome.  "  Never  did  Bossuet's  genius," 
says  Hallam,  "  find  a  subject  more  fit  to  display  its  character- 
istic impetuosity,  its  arrogance,  or  its  cutting  and  rtierciless 
spirit  of  sarcasm."  The  work  produced  such  an  effect  even  on 
some  German  Reformers  that  the  learned  Molanus  and  the 
philosopher  Leibnitz,  at  the  instigation  of  the  Duke  of  Bruns- 
wick, carried  on  a  serious  correspondence  for  several  years  with 
Bossuet  on  the  possibility  of  once  more  reconciling  the  Luther- 
ans with  the  Church  of  Rome.  But,  as  might  be  expected, 
though  Bossuet  showed  a  willingness  to  give  up  minor  matters, 
the  negotiation  never  produced  any  serious  result.  His  adver- 
saries reproach  him  with  having  advised  the  unwise  and  unjust 
Revocation  of  the  Edict  of  Nantes,  but  the  charge  has  never  been 
proved ;  in  spite  of  his  stern  character  he  always  did  his  utmost 
to  secure  to  Protestants  as  much  liberty  as  was  possible  under 
the  existing  law,  and  no  military  execution  was  ever  allowed  to 
take  place  during  his  episcopate  at  Meaux. 

Bossuet's  last  trouble  was  by  far  the  most  unpleasant  of  all 
and  for  awhile  caused  him  considerable  pain.  Madame  Guyon, 
a  lady  of  remarkable  piety  and  asceticism,  had  promulgated 
a  doctrine  called  Qiiietis7n,  which,  however  harmless  it  may 
be  when  kept  within  the  bounds  of  moderation,  if  carried  too 
far  must  certainly  result  in  the  most  deplorable  consequences. 
Fenelon,  now  archbishop  of  Cambray,  considering  the  doctrine 
as  a  mere  principle,  viewed  it  from  its  innocent  side  and  might 
in  some  respects  be  called  its  defender.  But  Bossuet,  accustomed 
to  the  .severe  and  positive  language  of  Scripture,  looked  with 
angry  suspicion  on  a  bewildering  doctrine  that  set  aside  as  use- 
less such  practices  as  good  works,  prayers,  frequentation  of  the 
sacraments,  etc.,  and  could  not  comprehend  a  devotion  to  Gcd 
so  intense  that  by  the  very  force  of  loving  him  we  might  forget 
to  serve  him.  Madame  Guyon  still  persisting,  the  bishops 
openly  denounced  her  books,  and  Bossuet  wrote  a  complete 


BOSSUET.  241 

and  direct  refutation  of  the  new  "  mysticism."  Fen^lon,  be- 
lieving that  his  friend  was  misunderstood  and  undertaking  in 
a  book,  called  the  Maxims  of  the  Saints,  to  prove  that  though 
her  words  might  possibly  be  wrong  her  meaning  might  certainly 
be  right,  Bossuet  seemed  to  lose  all  patience  ;  he  induced  the 
King  to  exile  F6n61on  from  court  and  send  his  book  to  Rome 
for  condemnation.  The  Pope,  after  some  hesitation,  having 
declared  it  somewhat  heretical,  Fenclon  submitted  at  once  with 
unaffected  humility,  but  the  rigid  and  severe  Bossuet  felt  so  sore 
on  the  subject  that  for  some  time  he  seemed  to  think  that  the 
Pope  himself  did  not  entertain  a  sufficiently  enlightened  view 
on  the  question. 

He  was  now  old,  but  his  industry  never  relaxing  a  moment, 
he  wrote,  among  other  works,  a  vigorous  treatise  against 
Theatres,  and  an  able  attack  on  Dupin  and  other  travellers  for 
their  rashness  in  pretending  to  have  discovered  traces  of  the 
Deluge.  In  his  seventy-seventh  year  the  venerable  prelate  was 
busily  engaged  in  a  dissertation  on  a  prophecy  of  Isaias  when 
a  severe  fever,  aggravating  his  old  disease  the  gravel,  carried 
him  off.  His  last  words  were  Fiat  voluntas  tua !  (thy  will  be 
done.) 

Of  Bossuet,  the  "  Modern  Father  of  the  Church,"  the  "  Cor- 
neille  of  Preachers,"  the  "  Eagle  of  Meaux,"  as  he  has  been 
variously  surnamed,  it  can  be  said  without  hesitation  that  in 
pure  oratory,  that  is,  the  employment  of  living  words  for  the 
purpose  of  persuasion,  he  has  never  been  surpassed  by  ancient 
or  modern.  He  descends  to  no  artifice,  he  balances  no  periods, 
he  never  hesitates  in  a  choice  of  words,  he  never  thinks  of  him- 
self, he  despises  the  ornamental,  he  spurns  the  beautiful,  he 
wishes  only  to  convince,  and  the  innate  strength  of  his  thought 
carries  him  indomitably  along.  The  study  of  the  Bible  has 
stamped  on  his  language  a  lofty,  universal,  and  prophetic  char- 
acter; his  heart  alpne  speaks,^  ordinary  human  motives  being 
never  thought  of.  Borrowing  his  own  expression  :  "  Eloquence 
followed  him,  like  a  handmaid,  not  carefully  sought  after,  or 
led  by  the  hand,  but  naturally  and  inevitably,  being  irresistibly 
impelled  by  the  force  of  circumstances." 
21  Q 


242  NOTES. 

Bossuet  was  mild  and  gentle  in  his  manners,  and,  except  in 
his  controversy  with  Fenelon,  never  seems  to  have  forgotten  the 
usual  serenity  of  his  temper. 

He  cared  so  little  for  money  that  he  died  somewhat  in  debt. 
He  was  buried  at  Meaux  where  his  monument,  erected  by  the 
Department,  can  still  be  seen,  his  grave  and  even  the  pulpit 
from  which  he  preached  having,  by  some  wonder,  escaped  vio- 
lation from  the  Vandals  of  the  Revolution. 

Note  54  —  MASSILLON  —  page  78. 

Jean  Baptiste  Massillon  (1663-1742),  the  Racine  of  the 
pulpit,  son  of  a  notary  in  Provence,  received  his  education  from 
the  Oratorian  Fathers  in  Hyeres  College,  where  his  favorite 
amusement  was  to  collect  his  playmates  around  him  while  he 
entertained  them  by  preaching  in  a  natural  and  agreeable  style 
whatever  had  most  caught  his  fancy  in  the  Sunday  sermon. 
This  and  other  unmistakable  signs  of  a  vocation  proving  at 
last  too  strong  for  his  father,  who  had  intended  him  for  his  own 
profession,  he  entered  the  congregation  of  the  Oratorians  in  his 
eighteenth  year,  devoting  himself,  however,  to  philosophy  and 
theology  rather  than  to  eloquence,  for  which  he  conceived  he 
had  no  particular  talent.  But  not  finding  the  rules  of  the  ordef 
severe  enough,  and  the  better  to  guard  himself  against  the  de- 
mon of  vanity,  he  abruptly  left  Hyeres  and  buried  himself  as  a 
simple  monk  in  the  remote  monastery  of  the  Seven  Fountains. 
No  one,  however,  can  escape  his  destiny.  Being  ordered  by 
the  Abbot  to  reply  to  a  rescript  sent  by  Cardinal  de  Noailles, 
he  performed  the  task  in  a  style  so  superior  to  what  could  be 
expected  from  the  monks  of  such  a  wilderness,  that  the  Cardinal, 
unwilling  that  such  talents  should  be  lost  to  the  Church,  restored 
the  writer  to  the  Oratorians.  They  appointed  him  professor  of 
rhetoric  and  theology  in  several  colleges  in  the  south  of  Fi  ince, 
where  he  discharged  his  duties  with  such  distinction  that  he  was 
sent  to  Paris  in  1696  to  take  charge  of  the  seminary  of  Saint 
Magloire. 

Here  he  composed  his  first  ecclesiastical  conferences,  simpler 
and  more  familiar  than  his  sermons  of  a  late  date,  but  alreadv 


MASrLLON.  243 

full  of  point,  strength,  and  life.  He  admired  the  wit  and  talent 
of  the  great  Parisian  preachers  of  the  day,  but,  Bossuct  and 
Bourdaloue  excepted,  he  did  not  like  their  style.  They  were 
too  theatrical  and  declamatory,  he  thought,  refining  too  much, 
wasting  time  on  mere  externals,  and  proclaiming  truths  too 
vague  and  general  to  be  useful.  The  heart,  he  considered,  they 
rather  neglected ;  though  it  was  this  seat  of  our  passions, emotions, 
illusions,  and  self-deceptions  that  should  be  attacked  by  reason 
and  sentiment  in  the  closest  combination  ;  by  laying  bare  the 
secret  springs  of  our  actions,  by  tearing  away  the  insidious 
veil  and  deceptive  varnish  that  egotism  attempts  to  disguise 
them  with,  by  revealing  them  to  us  in  all  their  native  deformity, 
he  considered  he  could  put  us  best  on  our  guard,  and  actually 
arm  us  against  ourselves.  This  seems  to  be  the  key  to  his 
peculiar  eloquence.  His  success  in  Montpelier  where  he  had 
been  sent  to  preach  the  Lenten  sermons  in  1698  was  so  decided 
that  he  was  appointed  to  perform  the  same  duty  in  Paris  on  the 
year  following. 

The  profound  emotion  excited  by  his  opening  discourse  would 
have  spoiled  a  speaker  whose  vanity  was  less  on  its  guard. 
But  he  knew  himself  too  well.  "  Stop,  stop.  Father,"  said  he 
to  a  friend  who  had  begun  to  congratulate  him,  "  the  Devil  is 
telling  me  all  that  in  terms  far  more  eloquent  than  yours."  The 
venerable  Bourdaloue,  who  had  come  to  hear  him,  was  so  de- 
lighted that  he  could  not  help  exclaiming  in  the  words  of  Saint 
John:  ''Hunc  oportet  crescere,  me  autem  mimif  (he  must  increase 
but  I  must  decrease).  When  Massillon  appeared  in  the  pulpit 
he  did  not  exactly  close  his  eyes,  like  the  celebrated  Jesuit 
preacher,  but  he  stood  for  some  time  with  head  bent,  with  no 
gesture  and  little  movement.  But  as  he  kindled  with  his  sub- 
ject, his  accent,  look,  and  gesture  became  so  animated  and  so 
profoundly  magnetic  that  Baron,  the  famous  tragedian  and 
Moliere's  favorite  pupil,  exclaimed  aloud  one  day  to  a  com- 
panion :  "  That 's  an  orator,  a  real  orator ;  we  are  only  players." 
Some  great  courtier,  La  Harpe  the  critic  tells  us,  riding  one  even- 
ing to  a  new  opera,  found  his  carriage  so  completely  blocked 
by  a  hne  of  carriages  moving  to  a  church  where  Massillon  was 


244  NOTES. 

preaching,  that,  while  waiting  to  be  extricated,  he  thought  he 
would  enter  the  church  for  a  few  minutes  himself,  just  to  kill  the 
time  ;  but  he  was  so  struck  with  the  appropriateness  of  the  text 
Thou  art  the  man  /  and  the  striking  style  in  which  it  was  treated 
that  he  returned  home  thoroughly  reformed  and  disposed  to  re- 
gard the  incident  as  altogether  providential.  It  was  in  this  same 
year  that,  being  appointed  at  the  King's  request  to  preach  the 
Advent  course  at  the  Royal  chapel,  Versailles,  he  extorted  from 
Louis  the  well-known  words  :  "  Father,  I  have  heard  many  ora- 
tors who  have  made  me  pleased  with  them,  but  you  make  me 
displeased  with  myself." 

It  was  at  Versailles  that  the  peroration  of  his  celebrated  ser- 
mon on  The  small  number  of  the  Elect  produced  a  most  extra- 
ordinary sensation.  "  Imagine,  my  brethren,"  he  exclaimed, 
"  that  the  last  hour  was  come,  that  the  heavens  suddenly  opened 
above  you,  and  that  Christ  appeared  in  all  his  glory  to  judge  us 
assembled  here  in  this  temple.  .  .  .  Who  are  His  ?  You  can- 
not answer;  neither  can  I.  .  .  .  But  if  we  know  not  who  are 
His,  we  know  that  sinners  do  not  belong  to  Him.  .  .  .  Titles 
and  dignities  count  as  nothing.  .  .  .  Appear,  ye  just  ones ! 
Where  are  ye  ?  Remnant  of  Israel,  pass  to  the  right !  Wheat 
of  Christ,  separate  yourself  from  the  straw  destined  for  the  flames ! 
O  God,  where  are  Thy  Elect  ?  What  remains  for  Thy  share  ? " 
These  words,  spoken  as  an  archangel  would  have  spoken  them, 
produced  an  instantaneous  movement.  The  whole  audience, 
including  the  King,  sprang  to  their  feet  in  a  transport  of  terror 
as  if  the  last  trumpet  had  sounded.  The  preacher  covered  his 
face  with  his  hands  and  remained  silent  for  a  few  moments. 
"  Never,"  says  Voltaire  in  the  Encyclopedie,  "  in  ancient  or 
modern  times  did  orator  venture  on  a  bolder  figure,  never  was 
there  a  more  daring  stroke  of  real  eloquence." 

Bossuet  and  Bourdaloue  passing  away  in  1704  and  Flechier 
in  1709  left  Massillon,  the  last  great  orator  of  a  great  age,  to 
preach  the  funeral  sermon  over  Louis  XIV.  in  17 15.  His  ex- 
ordium was  profoundly  touching.  Taking  for  his  text  the  pass- 
age from  Solomon  :  "  Behold,  I  am  great,  and  have  surpassed 
in  wisdom  all  those  who  have  been  before  me  in  Jerusalem  ;" 


MA  SILL  ON.  245 

and  I  have  perceived  that  it  was  all  vanity  and  vexation  of 
spirit,"  he  pronounced  the  words  slowly,  then  rolling  his  eyes 
over  the  vast  multitudes  dressed  in  mourning,  over  the  walls 
hung  with  funeral  drapery,  and  fixing  them  on  the  grand  mau- 
soleum erected  in  the  midst  of  the  temple,  he  was  silent  for  a 
moment  or  two,  before  he  exclaimed  in  a  voice  vibrating  with 
emotion:  "God  alone  is  great,  my  brethren!  He  always  is 
what  He  appears  to  be,  but  man  is  never  what  he  fancied  he 
was !  " 

Nominated  to  the  bishopric  of  Clermont  by  the  Regent  in 
1717,  before  departing  he  was  asked  to  preach  a  Lenten  dis- 
course before  the  young  King,  then  only  nine  years  old.  Le 
Petit  Careme  was  the  result,  composed  in  his  fifty-sixth  year. 
This  famous  work,  his  masterpiece,  a  Christian's  commentary 
on  Fenelon's  Telemaque,  consists  of  ten  sermons  treating  gen- 
erally on  the  condition  of  the  French  nobility,  reminding  them 
of  their  duties  to  God  and  man,  and  threatening  their  downfall 
in  terms  that  are  almost  prophetic.  Enumerating,  of  course 
with  the  proper  artifices  of  style  and  the  precautions  of  evan- 
gehc  charity  all  the  vices  and  disorders  that  were  dooming 
them  to  a  sure  destruction,  he  shows  all  through  that,  while  de- 
sirous to  reform  them,  he  has  little  sympathy  with  them,  his 
heart  being  faithful  to  the  great  family  of  the  humble  and  op- 
pressed from  which  himself  had  sprung.  This  course  might  be 
called  the  cry  of  the  lowly  against  the  oppression  of  the  great, 
the  youth  of  the  prince  he  addressed  permitting  him  bolder 
expression  of  home  truths  than  he  would  have  ventured  on  in 
the  presence  of  older  monarchs.  Some  critics,  Legouve  among 
the  number,  seem  to  think  the  Petit  Careme  rather  incHned  to 
monotony,  periphrase  and  repetition,  but  the  circumstances 
under  which  it  was  delivered  explain  away  some  of  this,  and 
Voltaire  admired  the  work  so  much  that  he  constantly  kept  a 
copy  on  his  desk,  referring  to  it  continually  as  a  model  of  the 
best  prose  eloquence.  Massillon,  unlike  Bossuet,  had  neither  a 
retentive  memory  nor  a  ready  command  of  language,  and  he 
was  therefore  always  obliged  to  write  out  his  sermons  with  great 
care  beforehand  ;  this  is  one  reason  why  they  are  still  almost  ai 
21* 


246  NOTES, 

good  when  read  as  when  heard,  though  the  profoundly  pathetic 
and  sympathizing  voice  of  the  speaker  contributed  powerfully 
towards  producing  the  effect.  One  day  he  stopped  short  sud- 
denly, before  the  King,  in  the  midst  of  his  discourse,  remaining 
almost  a  minute  before  he  could  recover  the  thread.  "  You  did 
well,  Father,"  said  L)uis  gracefully  after  the  sermon  was  over; 
"  you  did  well  to  give  us  time  to  relish  your  most  instructive  and 
interesting  lessons."  He  produced  the  greatest  effect  by  the 
sermons  that  he  had  himself  studied  most  deeply.  "  What  is 
your  best  sermon?"  asked  a  friend  one  day.  "The  sermon 
that  I  have  best  by  heart,"  was  his  candid  reply.  This  year  he 
was  elected  to  the  Academy,  where  he  appeared  but  once,  and 
then  only  to  pronounce  his  reception  discourse  which  was  a  new 
surprise  to  all  that  heard  it,  its  taste,  style,  grace  and  wit  placing 
Jt  far  above  the  most  polished  discourses  of  the  day. 

His  conduct  as  bishop  for  the  last  twenty-four  years  of  his 
life  was  marked  by  his  usual  zeal,  prudence,  charity  and  piety. 
He  assisted  the  poor  by  his  purse  as  well  as  his  pen,  and  ob- 
tained from  the  government  a  diminution  of  the  heavy  taxes 
that  oppressed  the  province  of  Auvergne.  He  secretly  sent 
twenty  thousand  livr£S  to  the  Hospital  of  Clermont,  and  hear- 
ing of  a  convent  where  the  nuns,  though  in  a  state  of  starvation, 
would  not  complain  for  fear  of  being  suppressed,  he  sent  them 
sufficient  funds,  but  with  such  secrecy  that  it  was  only  after  his 
death  that  they  know  who  had  been  their  benefactor.  Having 
reached  his  seventy-ninth  year,  he  died  as  he  had  lived,  revered 
by  all,  fearing  the  Lord,  loving  mankind,  without  money,  and 
without  debt. 

The  character  of  his  eloquence  is  a  simple,  noble,  interesting, 
natural,  and  affectionate  manner,  a  style  pure,  correct,  and 
chaste,  softly  entering  the  soul,  never  harrowing  it.  Voltaire, 
who  read  him  continually  to  maintain  his  own  inimitable  style, 
characterizes  him  as  "  the  preacher  who  best  understood  the 
world,  whose  eloquence,  more  agreeable  and  ornamented  than 
Bourdaloue's,  combined  at  once  the  courtier,  the  academician, 
the  wit,  and  the  moderate  and  tolerant  philosopher." 


BOURDALOUE.  2\J 

Here  are  a  few  of  hi§  sayings  that  show  how  profound  was 
his  knowledge  of  the  human  heart: 

Agreeable  advice  is  seldom  sound  advice. 

Real  piety  is  known  by  elevating  the  mind,  ennobling  the  heart,  and  strengthen- 
ing the  coun»ge. 

Fortune  may  lift  us  very  high,  but  happiness  is  still  far  beyond  her  reach. 

As  if  our  own  miseries  were  not  enough,  we  manufacture  another's  prosperity 
into  a  new  one. 

Jealousy  is  the  silent  acknowledgment  of  mediocrity. 

Even  in  our  praises  a  selfish  motive  is  generally  found  to  be  lurking. 

The  worst  of  all  traitors  is  the  flatterer. 

Note  55  —  BOURDALOUE  —  page  78. 

Louis  Bourdaloue  (1632-1704),  another  of  France's  greatest 
orators,  born  at  Bourges,  and  educated  by  the  Jesuits,  became 
one  of  the  most  illustrious  members  that  ever  belonged  to  that 
famous  order,  but,  though  occupying  a  dazzling  position  in  a  re- 
markable century,  his  life  hardly  presents  incident  enough  to 
form  a  sketch.  Occupied  incessantly  with  his  duties,  he  never 
thought  of  ecclesiastical  preferment  or  took  active  part  in  the 
religious  disputes  that  disturbed  this  lively  period.  His  sermons 
are  his  biography.  His  first  attempts  were  made  in  Normandy, 
where  they  soon  excited  so  much  admiration  that  he  was  sum- 
moned by  the  court  to  Paris  to  take  the  place  that  Bossuet  on 
becoming  the  Dauphin's  preceptor  had  been  obliged  to  leave 
vacant.  The  perfect  reasoning  and  systematic  method  of  his 
very  first  discourse  were  highly  relished  even  by  ears  that  were 
still  ringing  with  his  famous  predecessor's  brilliant  improvisa- 
tions. But  to  say  that  Bourdaloue  was  only  admired  would  not 
be  enough ;  even  the  court  heard  him  with  enthusiasm.  "  Never 
have  I  heard  anything,"  writes  Madame  de  Sevign6  to  her 
daughter,  "  more  beautiful,  more  noble  or  more  astonishing 
than  Father  Bourdaloue's  sermons."  "  By  Jove,  he 's  right," 
exclaimed  old  Marshal  de  Grammont  one  day  right  in  the 
middle  of  the  sermon,  unable  to  control  his  admiration,  and  in 
a  voice  loud  enough  to  be  heard  by  half  the  audience.  Louis 
KIV.  always  treated  him  with  particular  friendship  and  regard, 
protesting  every  time  he  heard  him  that  "  he  relished  Father 
Bourdaloue's  repetitions  better  than  the  novelties  of  anybody 


248  .  NOTES. 

else."  When  sent  to  Languedoc,  after  the  revocation  of  the 
edict  of  Nantes,  to  instruct  the  Protestants,  Louis  consoled  him- 
self for  his  absence  by  saying :  "  We  may  have  to  listen  per- 
haps ourselves  to  mediocre  preachers,  but  the  Languedoc  people 
will  learn  sound  morality  and  sound  doctrine."  In  this  delicate 
mission  his  good  sense  enabled  him  to  reconcile  the  interests 
of  his  ministry  with  the  sacred  rights  of  humanity,  and  Cath- 
olics and  Protestants  showed  themselves  equally  eager  to  recog- 
nize in  the  eloquent  missionary  the  apostle  of  truth  and  virtue. 

The  weakness  of  old  age  and  a  severe  cough  obliged  him  to 
give  up  preaching  during  the  last  ten  years  of  his  life,  but  he 
devoted  himself  incessantly  to  the  poor,  the  hospitals  and  the 
prisons.  He  died  on  the  field  of  battle  and  in  full  harness,  his 
feeble  health  never  interrupting  his  regular  visits  or  his  duties  in 
the  confessional.     He  said  mass  on  the  very  day  before  he  died. 

Bourdaloue  is  justly  considered  to  be  the  reformer  of  the 
French  pulpit,  the  founder  of  Christian  eloquence,  and  the  first 
model  of  a  good  preacher.  He  is  distinguished  from  his  pre- 
decessors by  the  convincing  force  of  his  arguments  and  the  un- 
answerable solidity  of  his  proofs.  In  the  vivid  imagination 
and  splendor  of  style  that  mark  the  finished  orator  he  may  be 
wanting.  In  reading  him,  critics  may  miss  Bossuet's  fiery  zeal, 
Massillon's  penetrating  grace  and  unction,  and  may  consider 
that  in  his  ardor  to  convince  he  rejects  as  useless  everything 
tending  to  touch  or  to  please.  But  his  reasoning  is  of  such  a 
superior  order  that  he  often  both  touches  and  pleases.  He 
clothes  the  truth  with  such  a  luminousness  and  presents  it  with 
such  force  that  our  minds,  while  accepting  it,  are  filled  with 
both  delight  and  emotion.  His  clearness  captivates  our  atten- 
tion and  his  vigorous  reasoning  fills  us  with  a  pleased  admira- 
tion. His  genius  is  less  allied  to  Bossuet's  than  to  that  of 
Pascal  whom  he  certainly  equals  in  the  strength  of  his  common 
sense  and  the  systematic  regularity  of  his  method.  He  is  read 
to-day  less  than  Massillon,  but  that  is  our  fault  rather  than  his ; 
to  relish  Bourdaloue  as  he  should  be  relished,  our  minds  should 
be  ripened  by  serious  study  and  enlightened  by  a  sincere  love 
for  the  solid,  the  lasting,  and  the  true. 


SAINTE-BEUVE,  249 

Note  56  — SAINTE-BEUVE  — page  81. 

Charles  Augustin  Sainte-Beuve  (1804-1869),  poet,  critic, 
senator,  member  of  the  French  Academy,  was  born  at  Boulogne. 
Losing  his  father,  a  collector  of  the  revenues,  very  young,  he 
was  taught  English  by  his  mother,  and,  coming  to  Paris  to  finish 
his  education,  graduated  at  the  College  Charlemagne.  Wish- 
ing to  secure  a  profession,  he  studied  medicine  for  some  time, 
though  writing  occasionally  in  the  Globe,  but  the  appearance  of 
Victor  Hugo's  Odes  and  Ballads  (1826)  made  him  renounce 
everything  for  literature.  He  joined  the  Cenacle,  became  a  vio- 
lent romanticist,  and  (1828)  published  his  first  work^  HistoricaL 
and  Critical  Picture  of  the  French  Poetry  of  the  i6th  Century, 
which  placed  him  at  once  at  the  head  of  the  critics  of  the  day. 
But  his  first  poetic  attempt.  The  Life,  Poetry,  and  Thoughts  of 
foseph  Delorme,  though  published  anonymously  as  the  work  of 
a  young  poet  just  dead,  unknown  and  neglected,  was  by  no 
means  a  success.  Some  wit  killed  it  by  the  nickname  Werther 
Carabin  (the  Sorrows  of  a  Saw-bones).  His  Consolations,  how- 
ever, which  appeared  soon  after,  are  still  read  with  interest  as 
the  dreamy,  mystic,  tender  reveries  of  a  soul  endeavoring  to 
struggle  out  of  the  pit  of  doubt  and  despair  into  the  regions  of 
light  and  faith.  But  Autumn  Musings  showed  no  progress,  ret- 
rogression rather,  being  ungraceful  in  style  and  painful  to  read. 
,The  Revolution  of  1830  having  dispersed  the  Cenacle  and  the 
Globe  falling  into  the  hands  of  Pierre  Leroux  the  famous  social- 
ist, Sainte-Beuve  coquetted  for  awhile  with  the  Saint-Simonians, 
though  he  could  never  be  induced  to  wear  their  dress.  But  he 
soon  left  the  new  religion  to  attach  himself  to  the  Revtce  des 
Deux  Mondes  and  the  National,  both  started  about  this  time. 
In  1834,  he  published  a  romance  called  Pleasure,  a  morbid 
pathological  study,  singular  rather  than  either  pleasing  or  inter- 
esting. In  1840,  he  published  the  first  volume  of  the  history  of 
Port  Royal,  a  long-winded  work  full  of  detail,  which  his  ap- 
pointment as  director  of  the  Mazarine  library  enabled  him  to 
complete  at  last  in  no  less  than  twenty  years.  Many  critics 
consider  this  to  be  one  of  the  most  remarkable  literary  produc 


2:0  NOTES. 

tions  of  the  day.  It  is  really  astonishing  to  find  in  it  such 
a  confirmed  sceptic  as  Sainte-Beuve  identifying  himself  so 
thoroughly  with  the  acts  and  doctrines  of  the  Jansenists  ;  the 
most  zealous  advocate  for  Grace  could  not  have  dealt  sturdier 
blows  in  its  behalf.  In  1845,  he  entered  the  French  Academy. 
In  1850,  he  began  his  famous  critical  series  in  the  Constitutionnel, 
called  Monday  Talks  [Causeries  de  Lundi).  His  friendship  for 
Louis  Napoleon  procured  him  a  place  on  the  Moniteur  after 
the  coup  d'etat,  and  also  an  appointment  as  professor  of  Latin 
poetry  in  the  College  of  France,  which,  however,  the  noisy 
demonstrations  of  the  students,  who  did  not  like  his  imperialism, 
soon  compelled  him  to  resign.  From  1857  to  1861  he  held  a 
position  in  the  Normal  School ;  and  in  1865  he  was  elevated  by 
the  Emperor  to  the  Senate,  where  his  violent  support  of  Renan 
made  him  somewhat  obnoxious  to  the  Ultramontanes. 

It  is  in  his  literary  criticisms  that  Sainte-Beuve's  varied  flexible 
and  sometimes  piquant  style  appears  at  its  best,  but  his  writings 
present  few  specimens  of  real  greatness.  Holding  no  deep  or 
absolute  convictions  on  any  subject,  he  examines  religion  and 
philosophy  rather  like  the  mere  probing  dilettante  than  the  bold 
thinker  who  honestly  endeavors  to  throw  what  light  he  can  on 
the  thousand  problems  that  so  profoundly  interest  humanity. 
In  reading  Sainte-Beuve,  we  cannot  help  feeling  that,  while  often 
subtle  and  penetrative,  he  is  so  only  with  regard  to  comparative 
trifles,  and  that  he  is  actually  afraid  to  dive  deep  enough  lest  he 
should  bring  up  something  likely  to  disturb  his  serene  equa- 
nimity. 

Note  57  — PASCAL— page  85. 

Blaise  Pascal  (1623-1662),  geometrician,  physicist,  philos- 
opher, creator  of  French  style,  and  Christian  writer  of  extraor- 
dinary power,  had  no  teacher  but  his  father,  a  president  of 
the  Court  of  the  Assessors  of  Auvergne,  who,  losing  his  wife  a 
few  years  after  his  marriage,  resigned  his  office  and  removed  to 
Paris,  the  better  to  direct  the  education  of  his  children,  a  son 
and  two  daughters.  From  his  tenderest  years  young  Pascal  had 
manifested  an  extraordinary  liking  for  the  natural  sciences,  and 
now,  instead  of  devoting   his   leisure   hours   to   the   ordinary 


PASCAL  25 1 

amusements  of  his  age,  he  passed  them  in  listening  to  the  Con- 
ferences regularly  held  at  his  father's  house  by  several  of  the 
most  celebrated  scholars  and  philosophers  of  the  epoch.  He 
even  read  for  them  one  day  a  little  treatise,  composed  in  his 
eleventh  year,  in  which  he  attempted  to  explain  on  scientific 
principles  why  a  plate  sounds  when  struck  with  a  knife,  and 
why  it  ceases  to  sound  when  touched  by  the  finger. 

Hearing  the  word  geometry  often  alluded  to  in  these  discus- 
sions, he  asked  his  father  the  meaning  of  the  term.  The  father, 
who  wished  to  prolong  as  far  as  possible  the  time  for  cultivating 
his  son's  memory  and  imagination  rather  than  his  judgment, 
tried  to  put  him  off  by  saying  he  would  teach  him  geometry  as 
soon  as  he  knew  his  Greek  and  Latin  perfectly.  The  boy  per- 
sisting, the  father  told  him  impatiently  that  for  the  present  he 
should  be  satisfied  with  knowing  that  geometry  was  the  science 
by  which  correct  figures  were  drawn  and  their  proportions  ascer- 
tained, but  that,  until  the  proper  time  came,  he  should  talk  no 
more  about  it  nor  even  think  about  it.  To  make  assurance 
doubly  sure,  he  put  out  of  the  boy's  way  all  the  books  that 
might  give  him  further  information  on  the  subject.  But  books 
were  not  needed  by  this  wonderful  genius ;  the  hint  he  had  got 
was  quite  sufficient  to  start  him  on  the  right  road.  The  father, 
noticing  his  son's  regular  absence  at  certain  hours,  followed  him 
quietly  one  day  into  an  old  garret  that  had  been  given  over  to  the 
children  as  a  play-room.  But  no  sign  of  play  there  now.  The 
bare  walls  were  covered  with  charcoal  drawings  of  triangles, 
squares  and  circles,  and  there  was  the  boy  standing  before  one 
of  them  and  so  intently  engaged  in  examining  a  diagram  that 
he  never  heard  his  father's  exclamation  of  astonishment.  He 
was  actually  endeavoring  to  prove  the  32d  proposition  in  the 
first  book  of  EucHd !  The  father,  hardly  able  to  speak,  asked 
his  son  what  he  was  doing.  Ashamed  of  his  disobedience  and 
mortified  at  its  detection,  young  Pascal  could  not  answer  for  a 
long  time,  but  at  last  he  said  he  was  trying  to  prove  that  the 
outside  corner  of  the  three  sider  was  equal  to  the  two  opposite 
inside  corners.  By  these  terms  he  meant  angles  and  a  triangle. 
"How  do  you  know  that?"     "It   must  be  so  since   another 


252  NOTES 

truth  is  so."  "  How  do  you  show  that  other  to  be  a  real  truth  ?' 
"  It  is  self-evident."  "  What  is  self-evident  ?  "  Continuing  hia 
questions  in  this  manner,  the  father  was  answered  by  demons 
stration  after  demonstration,  until  he  came  to  the  axioms,  which 
he  found  had  been  composed  by  the  child  himself  in  clear 
philosophical  language.  Even  a  set  of  definitions  this  young 
Euclid  had  also  written  out  for  himself,  calling  a  line  a  bar,  a 
circle  a  round,  etc.,  not  knowing  the  regular  geometrical  terms 
for  these  abstractions. 

The  father,  startled,  frightened  even,  at  such  a  revelation  of 
genius,  hastened  to  announce  to  a  friend  of  his  that  his  son  had 
actually  invented  geometry,  and  asked  him  what  should  be  done 
under  the  circumstances.  "  Let  him  follow  his  bent !  "  was  the 
instant  conclusion.  Euclid  was  swallowed  in  a  day  or  two  with- 
out the  least  help  ;  other  authors  presented  very  little  difficulty  ; 
the  boy  took  a  regular  seat  at  the  Conferences  and  soon  showed 
that  he  not  only  relished  what  was  going  on,  but  could  contribute 
his  own  share  towards  the  transactions.  At  sixteen  he  composed 
a  Treatise  on  the  Cotiic  Sections,  which  Descartes  always  attrib- 
uted to  the  elder  Pascal,  unable  to  imagine  how  a  mere  boy 
could  have  written  such  a  profound  work. 

A  few  years  afterwards,  the  father  having  been  appointed  by 
Cardinal  Richelieu  to  superintend  the  revenues  at  Rouen,  young 
Pascal,  desirous  to  diminish  the  labor  devoted  every  day  by  the 
clerks  to  long  and  tiresome  calculations,  invented  an  Arithmet- 
ical Machine,  the  first  of  the  kind  ever  successfully  attempted. 
But  the  intense  application  necessary  to  perfect  such  an  instru- 
ment in  the  first  place,  and  afterwards  the  worriment  of  teach- 
ing the  men  how  to  work  it,  had  such  an  effect  upon  a  consti- 
tution originally  weak,  that  from  this  time  till  the  hour  of  his 
death  he  hardly  ever  enjoyed  good  health  for  a  single  day.  But 
for  a  long  time  his  weakly  body  only  slightly  affected  his  glow- 
ing mind.  Inventive  and  creative  rather  than  learned,  he  con- 
tinued giving  new  discoveries  in  his  Arithmetic  Triangle,  his 
Theory  on  Probabilities,  his  Equilibrimn  of  Liquids,  and  his 
famous  Experiments  on  the  Weight  of  the  Air  by  which  he 
settled  forever  the  cause  of  the  suspension  of  r^ercury  in  the 


PASCAL.  25  3 

barometrical  tube.  He  even  originated  the  Brouette  or  Bath 
chair ;  the  Haquet,  a  peculiar  kind  of  dray  ;  the  Hydraulu 
Press,  and  other  contrivances  for  diminishing  labor  which  have 
been  since  more  or  less  modified.  He  even  gave  the  first  idea 
to  an  enterprise  realized  in  our  own  day  as  the  Onmibus.  Most 
of  these  scientific  investigations  were  completed  before  he  had 
reached  his  twenty-seventh  year. 

But  cold,  austere  science,  which  he  soon  felt  to  be  the  result 
of  a  curiosity  belonging  to  our  lower  nature,  and  therefore  not 
essential  for  us  to  know,  could  not  satisfy  his  longing  aspiring 
soul.  Duty,  philosophy,  religion  and  their  vast  revelations  pre- 
sented a  more  passionately  absorbing  study.  His  acquaintance 
.while  in  Rouen  with  the  Abbe  Guillebert,  a  Jansenist,  but  a 
most  eloquent  and  ascetic  theologian,  had  given  his  mind  a 
profoundly  religious  turn,  which  a  narrow  escape  from  death 
by  runaway  horses  rendered  indelible.  He  soon  took  up  his 
residence  in  the  monastery  of  Port  Royal,  where,  though  not  a 
member  of  the  Order,  he  continued  until  his  death.  Here  he 
suspended,  or  gave  up  altogether,  his  scientific  pursuits,  devot- 
ing himself  altogether  to  theology  and  the  sacred  scripture. 
Here  too,  where  he  had  expected  to  find  nothing  but  repose, 
friendship  and  balmy  contemplation,  fate  forced  on  him  the 
performance  of  a  work  that  has  rendered  the  invalid  recluse's 
name  immortal. 

This  monastery  of  Port  Royal,  mainly  an  educational  estab- 
lishment of  great  estimation  among  the  French  nobility,  was 
directed  by  Antoine  Arnauld,  one  of  the  most  learned  and  es- 
timable men  of  the  day,  but  unfortunately  inclined  towards 
yansenism,  a  doctrine  whi-ch,  however  its  supporters  may  ex- 
plain it,  certainly  seems  to  be  little  in  harmony  with  either  the 
free  will  of  man  or  the  infinite  goodness  of  God.  Having  drawn 
on  himself  by  an  indiscreet  letter  the  severest  attacks  from  the 
Jesuits  of  the  Sorbonnc  and  little  confident  in  his  own  ability 
to  r^ply,  Arnauld  prevailed  on  his  friend  Pascal  to  undertake 
his  defence.  Pascal,  somewhat  disposed  towards  the  gloomy 
doctrine  himself  and  indignant  at  the  injustice  with  which  he 
persuaded  himself  his:  friend  had  been  treated,  readily  under- 


254  NOTES. 

took  the  task,  devoting  to  it  the  whole  of  1656  and  part  of  1657. 
The  result  was  the  famous  Provincial  Letters,  purporting  to  be 
written  by  a  Parisian  to  a  friend  in  the  provinces,  and  attacking 
the  Jesuits  with  a  humorous  irony,  a  fierce  energy,  a  home  thrust, 
crushing,  but  pure  and  powerful  style  never  surpassed,  if  ever 
equalled.  Nothing  like  these  Letters  certainly  had  ever  appeared 
before  in  the  French  language.  Their  success  was  instantaneous. 
Everybody  turned  Jansenist,  because  the  polished  pen  of  a  great 
genius  had  for  awhile  overwhelmed  the  Jesuits  with  ridicule. 

The  extraordinary  merit,  however,  of  these  Letters  as  pieces 
of  composition,  and  they  are  read  to-day  with  as  much  ease  and 
relish  as  they  were  two  hundred  years  ago,  must  not  blind  us  to 
the  unfairness  and  party  spirit  with  which  a  careful  reading  will 
soon  convince  us  they  were  animated.  The  Jesuits  were  blamed 
for  acts  done  or  opinions  held  by  members  of  the  Order  long 
since  dead,  or  forgotten,  or  too  insignificant  to  be  noticed,  or 
who  had  been  formally  condemned  and  repudiated  by  the  So- 
ciety itself.  Garbled  doctrines  of  theirs  were  put  forward  as 
genuine,  and  charges  brought  against  them  for  acts  done  of 
which  the  modifying  circumstances  were  altogether  omitted. 
But  the  public  did  not  see  this,  or  would  not  see  it.  It  would 
have  its  laugh,  especially  at  the  Jesuits  who  were  at  that  time 
anything  but  popular  in  France.  They  were  blamed  for  every 
vile  thing,  from  the  assassination  of  Henry  III.,  the  massacre 
of  Saint  Bartholomew,  the  murder  of  Henry  IV.,  and  the  Gun- 
powder Plot,  downwards.  "  Everybody,"  says  Voltaire  in  the 
surpassing  style  that  Macaulay  has  imitated  so  well,  "  everybody 
tried  to  make  the  Jesuits  odious ;  Pascal  did  more,  he  made  them 
ridiculous.  Moliere's  best  comedies  are  not  wittier  than  the 
first  Provincial  Letters,  than  the  last  Bossuet  himself  never  wrote 
anything  more  sublime.  But  they  all  rest  on  a  false  foundation  ; 
the  whole  Society  was  adroitly  attacked  by  attributing  to  it  the 
extravagant  opinions  of  a  few  Spanish  or  Flemish  Jesuits ;  Do- 
minican or  Franciscan  fanatics  could  have  been  unearthed  just 
as  easily ;  but  they  were  not  wanted,  it  was  on  the  Jesuits  alone 
that  the  attack  was  to  be  made.  These  Letters  try  to  prove  that 
the  Jesuits  had  formed  a  plan  to  corrupt  the  morals  of  the  human 


PAsa-4L.  255 

race  —  a  plan  that  no  sect,  no  society  ever  has  or  ever  can  have 
entertained.  But  to  be  right  was  nothing  ;  the  main  point  was 
to  divert  the  pubhc." 

With  the  exception  of  this  work,  the  production  of  extraor- 
dinary genius  fanaticized  by  both  party  violence  and  head- 
strong attachment  to  a  chimera  difficult  to  recognize  in  this 
nineteenth  century,  Pascal  and  his  writings  command  our  de- 
cided wonder  and  admiration,  not  unmingled,  however,  with 
pain  and  compassion  when  we  reflect  on  the  terrible  asceticism 
with  which  he  tortured  the  remaining  few  years  of  his  life.  He 
would  allow  nothing  even  bordering  on  comfort  to  be  in  his 
room  ;  he  made  his  own  bed,  and  served  his  own  table.  His 
constant  motto  was  :  no  pleasure,  no  superfluity.  He  mortified 
his  poor  exhausted  frame  with  the  most  rigorous  fasts,  he  even 
wore  a  girdle  next  his  skin  set  with  little  iron  points  which  he 
struck  with  his  elbow  as  often  as  he  felt  himself  attacked  by  the 
spirit  of  pride  or  vanity.  He  suffered  so  much  from  headache 
as  to  be  often  on  the  verge  of  distraction.  He  could  swallow 
no  liquid  unless  it  was  hot,  and  then  only  drop  by  drop,  even 
the  most  nauseous  medicines  having  to  be  heated.  When  the 
doctors  compelled  him  to  take  sweet  and  delicate  food,  he  swal- 
lowed it  quickly  for  fear  the  taste  would  give  him  any  pleasure. 

Yet  in  the  midst  of  all  this  suffering  he  undertook  the  grandest 
work  that  human  genius  ever  conceived  —  the  attempt  to  prove 
the  divine  origin  of  Christianity,  by  the  light  of  natural  reason 
alone.  Being  intended  principally  for  geometricians,  physicists, 
and  men  of  science  generally,  who  require  or  pretend  to  require 
the  most  rigidly  logical  demonstration  for  every  assertion,  he 
first  undertook  to  show  these  learned  men  that  the  writer  who 
attempted  to  instruct  them  in  matters  of  faith  could  also  instruct 
them  in  the  most  recondite  mysteries  of  their  adored  science. 
He  therefore  challenged  the  mathematicians  of  Europe  to  some 
problems  on  the  Cycloid  which,  so  far,  the  most  learned  philos- 
ophers had  given  up  as  impossible.  He  even  announced  a  prize 
for  the  successful  respondent,  waiting  three  months  for  a  reply. 
Several  competitors  appearing  after  awhile,  but  the  judges  de- 
claring none  of  their  solutions  satisfactory,  Pascal  then  pub- 


256  NOTES. 

lished  his  General  Treatise  on  the  Cycloid,  resolving  all  the 
problems  completely,  though  he  had  written  the  whole  book  in 
no  more  than  eight  days. 

But  the  great  work  he  contemplated  he  never  lived  to  finish. 
It  does  not  seem  to  have  been  even  sketched  out  in  systematic 
order.  All  that  we  have  of  it  is  the  famous  Pensees  (Thoughts), 
the  stones,  as  it  were,  and  many  of  them  unhewn  shapeless 
blocks,  destined  for  the  magnificent  construction.  Many  of 
these  Thoughts,  by  their  depth,  subtlety,  and  comprehensive- 
ness, have  astounded  the  world.  Expressed  with  an  original- 
ity the  most  active  and  a  grace  the  most  charming,  in  matter 
as  well  as  in  form  they  are  characterized  by  an  indescribable 
elegance  as  delightful  as  it  is  convincing.  Many  of  them  are 
also,  no  doubt,  quite  unintelligible,  the  greater  and  more 
painful  our  regret,  therefore,  that  the  wonderful  soul  which 
understood  them  all  and  could  have  arranged  them  in  perfect 
symmetry  was  taken  away  before  accomplishing  even  the 
groundwork  of  the  sublime  task. 

His  pains  meantime  gave  him  no  reltixation.  His  final  illness, 
lasting  two  months,  began  with  a  complete  disgust  for  every- 
thing. Having  no  fever,  his  condition  surprised  the  doctors 
and  his  friends,  who,  not  believing  him  in  danger,  would  not 
send  for  his  confessor,  though,  knowing  better  himself,  he 
eagerly  asked  for  him  again  and  again.  His  headaches,  colics, 
and  fearful  pains,  however,  extorted  from  him  no  complaint. 
Charity  indeed  seemed  to  be  his  only  thought.  Seeing  himself 
the  object  of  the  most  assiduous  care  and  attention,  he  insisted 
that  a  poor  sick  man  should  be  brought  into  his  house  and 
treated  with  the  same  consideration,  desiring,  as  he  said,  to 
have  the  consolation  of  knowing  that  somebody  else  was  as 
well  cared  for  as  himself.  Frightened  by  a  swoon  that  nearly 
carried  him  off,  his  friends  at  last  brought  the  priest ;  Pascal  re- 
covered sufficiently  to  receive  the  sacrament  with  a  holy  fervor 
and  joy. that  moved  the  bystanders  to  tears.  A  few  minutes 
after,  he  fell  into  a  new  convulsion  from  which  he  never  re- 
covered, expiring  at  the  early  age  of  thirty-nine,  on  the  very 
year  of  Louis  XIV.'s  accession  to  the  throne.     "  I  love  poverty, 


PASCAL.  257 

were  among  his  last  words,  "  because  Christ  my  lord  has  loved 
it ;  I  love  wealth  too  because  it  furnishes  the  means  of  succoring 
the  distressed."  He  was  buried  in  the  church  of  St.  Etienne 
du  Mont,  where  his  tomb  is  still  to  be  seen. 

"A  genius,"  says  Guizot,  speaking  of  Pascal,  "unequalled 
alike  in  the  extent  and  the  variety  of  faculties  applied  with  the 
same  splendid  success  to  mathematics,  physics,  philosophy  and 
polemics  ;  disdaining  all  preconceived  ideas ;  going  fair  and 
straight  with  admirable  force  and  elevation  to  the  very  bottom 
of  things ;  independent  and  free  even  in  his  voluntary  sub- 
mission to  Christianity,  which  he  accepts  simply  because  he  has 
weighed  it,  measured  it,  and  sounded  it  to  its  lowest  depths ;  he 
is  too  firm  and  too  simple  not  to  bow  his  head  before  mys- 
teries of  which  he  confesses  himself  to  be  profoundly  ignorant. 
'  Had  there  been  no  darkness,'  says  he,  '  man  would  never  feel 
his  weakness ;  had  there  been  no  light,  man  could  never  enter- 
tain a  hope.  So  it  is  not  only  just  but  even  advantageous  to 
us  that  God  is  partly  hidden  and  partly  revealed,  since  it  is 
equally  dangerous  for  man  to  know  God  without  knowing  his 
misery  and  to  know  his  misery  without  knowing  God.'  The 
lofty  intelligence  of  this  great  man  made  him  even  recognize 
his  own  ignorance  and  be  reconciled  to  it.  '  We  can  easily 
feel,'  says  he,  '  that  there  is  a  God,  though  we  can  never  know 
what  He  is.' " 

A  few  of  Pascal's  detached  thoughts  : 

Vanity  is  so  rooted  in  the  heart  of  man  that  a  common  soldier,  a  scullion  even, 
will  boast  of  himself  and  have  his  admirers.  It  is  the  same  with  philosophers. 
Those  who  write  would  fain  have  the  fame  of  having  written  well,  and  those  who 
read  would  have  the  glory  of  being  readers;  I,  who  am  writing,  probably  feel  the 
same  desire,  and  you,  who  are  reading,  possibly  suffer  from  the  same  weakness. 

Certain  authors,  speaking  of  their  works,  say,  "My  book,  my  commentary,  my 
history."  It  were  better  to  say  "Our  book,  our  history,  our  commentary,"  for, 
generally,  there  is  more  in  it  belonging  to  others  than  to  themselves. 

I  lay  this  down  as  a  fact :  if  all  men  knew  what  they  say  of  each  other  there  would 
not  be  four  friends  in  the  world. 

Writers  who  frame  antitheses  by  forcing  the  sense  are  like  men  who  make  false  win- 
dows for  the  sake  of  symmetry.  Tlieir  rule  is  not  to  speak  justly,  but  to  make  pretty 
figures. 

The  utterer  of  bon-mots  is  generally  an  ill-natured  character. 

If  a  triflo  affects  lis,  a  trifle  also  consoles  us. 
?2*  R 


258  NOTES. 

A  man's  merit  is  not  to  be  measured  by  an  occasional  grand  effort,  but  by  liis 
every-day  actions. 

Do  you  want  the  world  to  talk  well  of  you?     Never  talk  well  of  yourself. 

Man  is  neither  a  fool  nor  an  angel,  but  in  wishing  to  pass  himself  off  as  an  angel 
he  shows  himself  to  be  a  contemptible  fool. 

Note  siVi  —  PATIN  —  page  86. 

Henri  Joseph  Guillaume  Patin  (i 793-1 876),  famous  Greek 
and  Latin  scholar,  member  of  the  French  Academy,  professor 
of  rhetoric  in  the  college  of  Henry  IV.,  assisted  Villemain  as 
lecturer  at  the  Sorbonne,  where,  in  1833,  he  succeeded  Lemaire 
as  professor  of  Latin  poetry.  His  prose  writings,  particularly 
his  Studies  oti  the  Greek  Tragedians ,  reveal  a  pure  and  elegant 
style,  and  a  profound  knowledge  of  ancient  literature. 

Note  58  —  LA  FONTAINE  —  page  90. 

Jean  de  La  Fontaine  (i 621-1695),  the  most  famous  of 
fabulists,  ancient  or  modern,  was  born  at  Chateau-Thierry,  an 
old  town  in  Champagne,  on  the  Marne,  in  a  house  still  carefully 
preserved.  Too  lazy  or  indifferent  to  learn  anything  in  his  boy- 
hood, he  giew  up  very  ignorant,  but  at  19  or  20  he  was  sent 
to  the  Oratorian  Fathers  at  Reims,  entertaining  possibly  some 
idea  of  studying  for  the  Church.  Here  he  showed  a  taste  for 
Latin  and  poetry  but,  anything  like  serious  study  proving  too 
much  for  his  indolent  and  pleasure-loving  disposition,  his  edu- 
cational career  hardly  lasted  eighteen  months.  "  If  you  knew 
the  kind  of  a  man  he  was,"  says  the  Abbe  Olivet,  "  you  would 
be  less  surprised  at  his  quitting  the  seminary  so  soon  than  at 
his  having  ever  entered  it  at  all."  Even  laziness,  however,  and 
good-natured  indifference  could  not  keep  a  man  of  his  genius 
completely  ignorant.  Hearing  somebody  recite  an  ode  of  Mal- 
herbe's  on  the  assassination  of  Henry  IV.,  he  felt  himself  so 
transported  by  the  verses  that  he  got  the  poet's  works  all  by 
heart  and  spent  whole  days  reciting  them  in  the  woods.  A  rel- 
ative named  Pintrel,  and  a  priest  named  Maucroix,  a  lifelong 
friend,  taking  advantage  of  this  unexpected  enthusiasm,  en- 
couraged him  to  read  the  earlier  French  writers,  and  partic- 
ularly the  Latin  poets  Horace,  Virgil,  and  Terence.     La  Fon- 


LA  FONTAINE.  2$g 

taine  followed  this  advice,  even  translating  and  publishing 
one  of  Terence's  plays ;  Greek  he  could  never  learn,  but  a 
careful  translation  of  Plato,  Plutarch  and  Homer,  made  after- 
wards for  him  by  his  friend  Racine,  enabled  him  to  relish  many 
of  the  moral  and  political  maxims  contained  in  the  works  of 
these  writers.  Italian  literature  also  he  cultivated  at  this  time 
with  some  care,  Machiavelli,  Ariosto,  and  Boccaccio  being  his 
chief  favorites.  • 

His  father,  warden  of  the  Waters  and  Forests  of  the  Duchy 
of  Bouillon,  though  proud  of  his  son's  poetical  talents,  had  lit- 
tle confidence  in  poetry  as  a  profession,  and  exerted  his  influence 
to  have  him  appointed  as  his  successor.  La  Fontaine  accepted 
the  position,  but  took  such  little  interest  in  his  duties  that,  after 
exercising  the  charge  for  thirty  years,  he  was  completely  igno- 
rant to  the  last  of  the  meaning  of  even  the  commonest  terms  of 
forestry.  When  asked  to  marry,  he  showed  the  same  heedless 
easy  complaisance.  His  wife,  though  good-looking  and  intelli- 
gent, was  soon  as  much  neglected  as  the  forests  and  waters. 
Everything  like  duty,  in  fact,  all  through  his  life  he  felt  to  be  an 
intolerable  chain.  Even  of  his  only  son  he  almost  entirely 
forgot  the  existence,  leaving  him  altogether  in  the  charge  of 
strangers. 

This  poetic  Rip  Van  Winkle,  absorbed  in  the  present,  heed- 
less of  the  future,  neglecting  his  business,  consuming  his  prop- 
erty—  principal  as  well  as  interest,  passing  most  of  his  time 
among  his  jolly  companions  in  Reims,  was  leading  a  good-for- 
nothing  life  likely  to  end  in  complete  obscurity,  when  an  uncle 
of  his  wife's,  named  Jannart,  who  seems  to  have  invariably 
entertained  a  great  liking  for  his  convivial  nephew,  invited 
him  to  Paris,  and  presented  him  to  his  friend  and  patron  Fou- 
quet,  the  famous  superintendent  of  the  finances.  The  rural 
tavern  poet  soon  pleased  this  generous  Meca^nas  so  much  that 
he  gave  him  at  once  a  pension  of  looo  livres,  demanding  in 
return  a  poetical  receipt  every  quarter,  and  counted  him  for 
seven  years  among  his  most  intimate  acquaintances.  La  Fon- 
taine's muse  all  this  time,  however,  seems  to  have  been  almost 
as  idle  and  as  indifferent  as  his  life,  most  of  her  efforts  being 

PROPfRTyOF 

nrn/lDTMrMT  nc  nnAMnno  unr 


26o  NOTES. 

hardly  worth  recording.  But,  on  Fouqnet's  fall  and  disgrace, 
that  La  Fontaine  had  a  grateful  as  well  as  a  courageous  heart 
was  shown  by  the  Odes,  in  which  he  implored  the  angry 
King  to  show  some  mercy  to  an  unfortunate  minister  whose 
worst  fault  was  too  great  a  love  for  his  sovereign.  Jannart 
being  exiled  to  Limoges  on  account  of  his  connection  with 
Fouquet,  La  Fontaine  followed  his  friend  to  that  comparative 
solitude.  His  chief  amusement  on  the  journey  seems  to  have 
been  writing  letters  to  his  wife,  some  of  them  singular  enough, 
as  the  following  extracts  may  show:  "  It  is  just  midnight  and 
we  have  to  rise  with  the  sun,  but  precious  hour  after  precious 
hour  I  spend  writing  to  you,  I  the  favorite  son  of  sleep  and  idle- 
ness. Talk  of  husbands  sacrificing  themselves  for  their  wives ! 
Show  me  one  of  them  that  can  be  compared  to  me  !  .  .  .  But 
it  is  all  for  your  good.  If  you  like  these  letters,  they  may  lead 
you  on  to  something  serious..  At  present  you  neither  play  nor 
work  nor  keep  house,  you  just  sit  and  read  novels,  except  when- 
a  gossipping  visitor  drops  in  through  charity.  Some  of  these 
novels  are  anything  but  good  reading,  and  even  such  as  it  is 
the  stock  often  runs  out ;  then  there  you  are,  high  and  dry. 
Now  suppose  these  nonsensical  letters  of  mine  could  get  you 
interested  in  history,  real  history,  of  places  and  persons.  The 
acquisition  of  such  a  habit  would  banish  every  tiresome  mo- 
ment from  the  rest  of  your  life.  Only,  you  know,  you  must 
never  remember  your  history,  still  less  quote  it.  To  be  a  blue 
stocking  is  no  credit  to  any  woman  ;  and  to  try  to  pass  herself 
off  as  one  is  discreditable  in  the  highest  degree." 

From  Limoges  he  returned  as  soon  as  he  could  to  Paris,  but 
property  and  money  troubles  often  brought  him  back  to  Chateau- 
Thierry,  where  he  was  fortunate  enough  to  meet  (1664)  with  a 
patroness  who  somewhat  consoled  him  for  the  loss  of  Fouquet 
This  was  the  Duchess  of  Bouillon,  the  wife  of  the  lord  of  the 
manor,  a  lady  of  remarkable  wit,  beauty,  and  great  influence 
at  court.  It  was  probably  by  her  that  he  was  presented  to  the. 
Dowager  Duchess  of  Orleans,  the  King's  aunt,  who  readily 
recognizing  his  genius  gave  him  a  residence  in  the  Luxemburg 
Palace  with  the  title  and  pay  of  gentleman  in  attendance.    Here 


LA  FONTAINE,^  26 1 

he  soon  became  known  and  greatly  appreciated,  not  only  by 
noblemen  of  the  highest  rank,  but  also  by  friends  that  he  prized 
far  more  highly,  and  whose  influence  was  far  more  beneficial. 
For  it  is  no  doubt  to  the  influence  exerted  by  such  men  as  Mo- 
liere,  Racine,  Boileau,  and  other  distinguished  celebrities  of  the 
time  on  the  easy  poet  that  we  are  indebted  for  his  immortal 
Fables.  Louis  XIV.  too,  though  in  general  far  from  approving 
of  the  character  of  some  of  his  writings,  saw  the  poet  occasion- 
ally and  made  him  generous  presents.  In  1665,  the  first  volume 
of  his  Tales  appeared;  in  1668,  he  published  the  first  six  books 
of  his  Fables,  dedicating  them  to  the  Dauphin,  Bossuet's  pupil. 
The  second  volume  of  his  Tales  was  given  to  the  world  in  1671, 
and  five  new  books  of  his  Fables  in  1678.  His  Tales  were  very 
popular  in  spite  of  their  hcentiousness,  but  it  is  his  Fables  that 
have  made  his  name  dear  forever  to  old  and  young. 

The  death  of  the  Duchess  of  Orleans  in  1672  and  the  exile  of 
the  Duchess  of  Bouillon  in  1680,  would  have  thrown  this  help- 
less man  once  more  on  the  world  but  for  the  timely  intervention 
of  another  patroness,  this  time  a  Madame  de  la  Sabliere,  who, 
taking  pity  on  his  desolate  condition  and  being  a  great  admirer 
of  literature  and  philosophy,  gave  him  shelter  in  her  own  house, 
where  his  friend  Bernier,  the  celebrated  philosopher  and  travel- 
ler, had  already  received  a  similar  hospitality.  In  this  joyous 
abode  La  Fontaine  led  the  kind  of  life  that  just  suited  him  ;  free 
from  money  troubles,  free  from  house  troubles,  he  could  see  his 
company,  polish  his  poetry,  talk,  be  silent,  eat,  drink,  blunder 
or  philosophize  with  perfect  impunity. 

In  company  this  great  writer  was  very  unequal ;  with  friends 
he  was  sometimes  the  gayest  of  the  gay,  but  not  unfrequently 
the  stupidest  of  the  stupid,  his  fits  of  absent-mindedness  lead- 
ing him  into  innumerable  absurdities.  His  friends'  name  for 
him  was  the  Bon/tomme  (simpleton).  What  La  Bruyere,  who 
knew  him  well,  says  of  him  is  well  known  :  "  The  man  appears 
coarse,  heavy,  stupid ;  he  can  neither  speak,  nor  tell  what  has 
just  passed  before  his  eyes  ;  but  put  a  pen  in  his  hand,  and  he 
becomes  the  model  of  narrators ;  he  makes  everything  speak, 
trees,  animals,  stones,  and  speak  with  grace  too  ;  you  find  noth- 


262  [VOTES. 

ing  but  airiness,  elegance  and  delicacy  in  his  works."  Louis 
Racine,  son  of  the  poet,  says  something  similar:  "  He  never 
contributed  anything  of  his  own  to  the  conversation.  My  sisters, 
who  had  often  seen  him  when  children  at  my  father's  table,  re- 
member him  still  as  a  man  not  over  clean  in  his  habits  and  very 
tiresome  in  his  language.  Frequently  he  never  spoke  a  word  at 
all ;  but  all  at  once  he  would  start  on  Plato,  and  then  he  would 
never  stop."  Such  testimonies,  though  of  course  much  ex- 
aggerated, are  no  doubt  well  founded.  "  Only  for  your  wit,  M. 
de  La  Fontaine,"  cried  Madame  de  la  Sabliere  to  the  poet  one 
day,  "you  would  be  extremely  stupid!"  Anecdotes  showing 
the  simplicity  and  originality  of  the  man  are  as  plentiful  about 
La  Fontaine  as  about  Goldsmith ;  we  shall  give  the  first  we  meet. 
In  1691,  at  the  first  representation  of  his  own  opera  Astrea,  seated 
in  a  box  behind  some  ladies  who  did  not  know  him,  he  annoyed 
them  considerably  by  crying  out  every  moment  "  what  wretched 
stuff!  "  At  last  the  ladies,  out  of  all  patience,  could  not  help 
saying  :  "  Sir,  won't  you  please  keep  your  observations  to  your- 
self! The  piece  is  not  so  bad.  The  author  is  a  man  of  wit, 
the  famous  Monsieur  de  La  Fontaine."  "  My  ladies,"  he  re- 
plied, "  the  piece,  I  tell  you  again,  is  vile  trash.  And  as  for  the 
La  Fontaine  that  you  are  crying  up  so,  he  is  an  ignoramus.  I 
am' La  Fontaine  myself,  and  I  ought  to  know  !  "  Leaving  the 
theatre  after  the  first  act,  he  entered  a  neighboring  tavern  and 
fell  asleep  in  a  corner.  An  acquaintance  soon  woke  him  up, 
asking  him  in  astonishment  why  he  was  not  at  the  representation 
of  his  own  opera.  "  I  have  been  there,"  answered  La  Fontaine, 
yawning,  "  but  the  thing  was  so  stupid  that  I"  could  stand  no 
more  than  the  first  act.  You  Parisians  are  wonderfully  patient." 
One  evening  in  a  mixed  company  his  son,  by  this  time  a  fine  in- 
telligent young  man,  was  presented  to  him  by  a  mutual  friend 
who  took  care  to  emphasize  the  relationship.  "  Delighted  to 
make  your  acquaintance,  sir !  "  said  the  absent-minded  Bon- 
homme,  moving  off  to  another  part  of  the  room.  Some  time 
after  this,  noticing  that  a  young  man  saluted  him  with  great  re- 
spect and  never  recognizing  his  son,  he  was  seen  to  gaze  after 
him  with  mingled  interest  and  perplexity,  muttering  to  himself, 


LA  FONTAINE.  263 

"  I  have  certainly  seen  that  young  fellow  somewhere  !  "  In 
spite  of  such  eccentricities,  however,  it  must  not  be  supposed 
that  the  best  judges  did  not  recognize  and  fully  appreciate  the 
peculiar  genius  of  the  great  raconteur  in  that  age  of  genius. 
"Gentlemen,"  said  Moliere  one  day,  when  the  company  had 
been  unusually  merry  over  some  incredible  fatuities  of  La  Fon- 
taine, "  you  wits  may  give  yourselves  what  airs  you  please,  but 
I  tell  you  the  Bonhomme  will  outlast  the  best  of  us  !  "  In  1684, 
he  was  enrolled,  after  some  difficulty,  in  the  French  Academy, 
Louis  XIV.  withdrawing  his  opposition  only  on  the  poet's  ex- 
press promise  to  lead  henceforward  a  more  regular  life  and  to 
employ  his  pen  only  on  becoming  subjects. 

In  the  same  year  he  lost  his  patroness  Madame  de  la  Sabliere 
who,  retiring  from  the  yvorld,  passed  the  rest  of  her  days  in  a 
hospital,  devoting  herself  altogether  to  the  care  of  the  sick  and 
the  performance  of  other  good  works.  This  was  a  severe  blow 
to  the  overgrown  child,  now  in  his  sixty-fourth  year  and  less 
able  than  ever  to  take  care  of  himself.  The  chief  amusement 
of  his  old  days  seems  to  have  been  his  regular  visits  to  the 
Academy,  though  as  one  friend  after  another  dropped  off",  even 
that  was  often  a  pain.  His  former  patroness,  the  Duchess  of 
Bouillon,  hearing  of  his  loneliness,  invited  him  to  pass  the  rest 
of  his  days  in  her  palace  in  England,  and  poor  La  Fontaine 
thought  so  seriously  of  the  proposition  that  he  took  up  a  gram- 
mar to  learn  the  English  language.  From  a  step  so  disagreeable 
to  himself  and  so  disgraceful  to  France  he  was  dissuaded,  how- 
ever, by  the  illustrious  Fenelon,  his  great  admirer,  and  at  this 
time  preceptor  to  the  young  Duke  of  Burgundy,  the  heir  pre- 
sumptive. Calling  on  the  old  poet  one  day  with  his  royal  pupil, 
he  praised  his  Fables  as  a  delightful  and  useful  book,  which  he 
hoped  he  would  continue.  A  generous  present  from  the  young 
prince  easily  putting  all  thought  of  England  out  of  the  flattered 
poet's  head,  he  set  himself  with  delight  to  the  task ;  the  twelfth 
book  of  the  Fables  was  the  result,  a  work,  though  composed  in 
his  seventy-second  year,  fully  equal  to  the  others  in  freshness 
of  imagination,  and  vigorous  grace  of  style. 

But  however  it  might  be  with  the  mind,  the  body  began  to 


264  NO  TES. 

grow  feeble,  and  at  last  the  old  poet  fell  dangerousl)  sick.  His 
friends  became  alarmed.  Though  at  no  time  a  free-thinker  or  a 
scoffer,  he  had  been  always  too  indifferent,  unrestrained,  and  self- 
indulgent  to  make  any  pretensions  to  a  sense  of  Christian  moral- 
ity. A  priest  went  at  once  to  see  him  and  recommended  him  to 
read  the  New  Testament.  "  I  have  read  it,"  answered  the  Bo?t- 
honwie ;  "  I  assure  you  it  is  an  excellent  book."  Delighted  to 
find  his  task  so  easy,  the  Abbe  called  the  sick  man's  attention 
to  the  great  scandals  occasioned  by  his  life  and  some  of  his 
books,  and  to  the  necessity  of  making  serious  atonement. 
Though  greatly  surprised  at  these  terrible  charges,  he  would  not 
argue  with  his  adviser,  but  simply  asked  what  was  to  be  done. 
"Burn  that  bad  play  you  have  just  finished,"  said  the  priest, 
"  and  make  a  public  confession  of  your. sorrow  for  having  writ- 
ten those  immoral  stories."  "  I  will  burn  the  play  readily, 
my  Father,  but  you  astonish  me  by  calling  my  tales  immoral." 
The  priest  insisting  and  the  argument  waxing  warm,  the  poet's 
old  housekeeper  thought  proper  to  interfere  with  the  well-known 
words:  "Quit  fashing  him,  Father;  the  creature  is  too  simple 
to  be  wicked ;  our  good  Lord  would  never  have  the  heart  to  put 
such  an  innocent  in  hell."  The  dispute  could  end  only  in  one 
way ;  the  dying  poet  promised  everything,  made  his  confession, 
and  received  the  viaticum  with  the  most  fervent  dispositions. 
This  time,  however,  he  did  not  die,  but  his  conversion  was  sin- 
cere and  most  complete.  On  his  first  appearance  in  the  Acad- 
emy after  his  recovery  he  promised  to  devote  the  rest  of  his 
days  to  such  subjects  alone  as  might  somewhat  repair  the  injury 
done  by  his  light  and  frivolous  pen.  And  he  kept  his  word.  If 
anything  could  atone  for  the  previous  irregularities  of  his  life 
and  make  some  amends  for  the  heedless  scandals  of  some  of 
his  works,  it  would  be  the  really  recollected  and  serious  manner 
in  which  he  passed  his  last  two  years  on  earth. 

These  two  years,  soothed  by  kindness  and  consoled  by  friend- 
ship, were  by  no  means  unpleasant.  His  end  was  like  the  sage's 
that  he  alludes  to  in  Philemon  and  Baucis : 

Rien  ne  trouble  sa  fin,  c'est  le  soir  d'un  beau  jour. 


LA  FONTAINE.  265 

An  old  friend,  Hcrvart,  touched  at  the  lonely  condition  of  the 
invalid  poet,  concluded  to  take  care  of  him  for  the  rest  of  his 
days,  and  started  to  make  the  proposition.  He  met  La  Fon- 
taine on  the  street  moving  along  with  difficulty.  Their  dialogue 
is  often  quoted.  "  My  wife  wants  you  to  take  up  your  quarters 
at  our  house,  La  Fontaine,"  said  Hervart.  "There's  where  I 
was  going,"  replied  the  Boiihomme.  Though  his  health  was  not 
good,  he  was  incessantly  occupied,  and  full  of  cheerfulness  and 
hope.  Towards  the  end  of  1694  he  writes  to  his  old  friend  the 
Abbe  Maucroix  :  "  I  hope  we  shall  both  reach  our  eighties,  and 
that  I  shall  have  time  to  finish  my  hymns.  My  work  keeps  me 
alive.  What  do  you  think  of  my  translation  of  the  Dies  Irae 
herewith  enclosed  ?  I  have  another  grand  idea  on  hand  in 
which  you  will  be  able  to  give  me  invaluable  assistance.  But  I 
must  not  tell  you  what  it  is  until  I  shall  have  made  some  head- 
way." This  work,  however,  probably  translations  of  the  Scrip- 
tures, he  did  not  hve  to  finish.  A  short  time  before  his  death, 
in  his  seventy-third  year,  he  writes  to  this  same  old  friend :  "  You 
are  greatly  mistaken  if  you  think  me  suffering  in  mind  rather 
than  in  body.  Our  common  friend  thinks  so  too,  or  says  he 
does,  probably  to  give  me  courage.  But  he  also  is  mistaken  ;  it 
is  not  courage  I  want.  I  assure  you  that  your  oldest  and  truest 
friend  has  not  a  fortnight  to  live.  For  the  last  two  months  I 
have  not  gone  out  of  doors,  except  to  take  an  odd  stroll  to  the 
Academy,  by  way  of  amusement.  On  my  return  yesterday,  I 
was  seized  with  such  a  weakness  in  the  street  that  I  thought  my 
last  hour  was  come.  Oh  my  dear  friend,  dying  I  do  not  mind, 
but  remember  I  am  shortly  to  appear  in  the  presence  of  God ! 
You  know  how  I  have  lived.  Perhaps  before  you  receive  this, 
the  gates  of  eternity  will  have  closed  on  me  forever." 

La  Fontaine  was  buried  near  his  old  friend  and  companion  Mo- 
liere  in  the  cemetery  of  Saint  Joseph,  whence,  after  some  disturb- 
ance by  the  Revolution, their  ashes  were  transferred  to  the  famous 
cemetery  of  Pere  La  Chaise,  where  their  humble  tombs  side  by 
side  are  still  to  be  seen.  Of  his  life  or  genius  little  need  be  said. 
His  Fables  are  as  well  known  as  the  French  language.  In  read- 
ing them  we  excuse  every  failing  of  the  man,  his  weaknesses, 
23 


266  .VOTES. 

his  abstractions,  his  incongruities,  his  blunders.  We  think  only 
of  his  good  nature,  his  wit,  his  humor,  his  candor,  his  simphc- 
ity.  And  these  are  the  qualities  too  that  we  find  so  irresistible 
in  his  writings,  combined  with  peculiar  originality,  lively  imag- 
ination, occasional  poetic  fervor,  very  often  extremely  good 
common  sense. 

What  our  author  says  of  him  (pp.  104,  105)  shows  his  thorough 
appreciation  of  La  Fontaine  as  a  poetic  Fabulist,  and  it  is  by  no 
means  pitched  in  too  high  a  key. 


Note  59  — SAINT  SIMON  — page  91. 

Louis  de  Rouvroi  (167 5-1755),  Duke  de  Saint  Simon,  peer 
of  France,  scion  of  a  noble  family  tracing  itself  back  to  the 
days  of  Charlemagne,  accomplished  courtier,  and  author  of  the 
most  famous  Memoires  that  have  ever  appeared,  was  held  over 
the  baptismal  font  by  the  royal  hands  of  Louis  XIV.  and  Maria 
Theresa  of  Austria,  the  king  and  queen  of  France.  Educated 
with  much  care  in  his  father's  house  under  a  mother's  watchful 
eye,  and  becoming  a  proficient  scholar  in  Latin,  German,  and 
History,  when  still  a  youth  he  entered  the  army,  but,  after 
serving  with  some  distinction,  at  his  father's  death  he  gave  up 
the  field  for  the  court,  either  finding  preferment  too  slow  or 
deeming  himself  better  qualified  for  diplomacy  than  war. 

His  new  career,  however,  at  first  does  not  seem  to  have  given 
him  much  sa^sfaction.  In  fact  at  no  time  did  he  feel  himself 
sufficiently  appreciated,  and  through  his  whole  life  he  impresses 
us  with  the  self-consciousness  of  a  disappointed  man.  He 
could  not  be  happy.  Great  as  were  his  talents,  they  bore  no 
proportion  to  his  vanity  ;  if  the  highest  position  could  hardly 
satisfy  his  soaring  ambition,  the  comparative  obscurity  in  which 
he  passed  his  youth  could  not  help  souring  his  temper.  Having 
nothing  better  to  do,  he  began  writing  his  Meinoi?-es.  The  period 
he  particularly  treats  of  being  towards  the  end  of  Louis  XIV.'s 
reign,  when  most  of  the  great  characters  that  had  rendered  it 
illustrious  were  either  dead  or  withdrawn  forever  from  public 
life,  the  colors  he  employs  are  naturally  rather  dark  and  the 


SAINT  SIMON.  267 

portraits  often  anything  but  flattering.  Feeling  keenly  the 
neglect  with  which  he  was  treated  by  his  royal  godfather,  who 
certainly  had  troubles  enough  otherwise  to  engross  his  attention, 
he  never  omits  an  opportunity  of  giving  the  old  king  a  sharp 
dig.  It  must  be  acknowledged,  however,  that  in  spite  of  his 
cynicism,  he  shows  himself  conscientiously  just  and  faithful 
towards  many  of  the  meritorious  men  of  the  period.  His  por- 
traits of  the  young  Duke  of  Burgundy  the  heir  presumptive,  of 
the  illustrious  Fenelon,  of  Catinat,  of  Vauban,  of  Beauvilliers 
and  others  distinguished  for  their  virtues  and  grand  qualities, 
are  stamped  with  a  love  of  truth  and  an  honest  respect  for 
morality.  And  even  when  he  turns  his  attention  to  men  of  a 
different  character,  such  as  Vendome,  Dubois,  and  the  Duke  of 
Orleans,  his  sketches,  with  all  their  bitter  and  dark  delineations 
of  vice,  can  hardly  be  called  overcharged  or  in  any  respect  un- 
true. 

His  intention  being  not  to  publish  the  work  until  long  after 
the  death  of  every  person  it  speaks  of,  he  spares  nothing ;  he 
writes  exclusively  for  history  and  posterity ;  he  can  hardly  be 
said  to  entertain  any  positive  hatred  towards  his  contemporaries; 
and  his  means  for  arriving  at  the  truth  and  discovering  the 
hidden  springs  of  motives  were  certainly  unequalled.  Still  the 
general  reader  must  never  forget  that  the  Duke  wrote  under 
peculiar  circumstances  which  could  not  help  somewhat  warping 
his  judgment.  He  is  often  too  bitter,  too  cynical,  and  too  sus- 
picious of  any  other  motive  than  sordid  self-interest  being  able 
to  sway  the  human  heart,  to  be  always  trustworthy.  He  has 
his  palpable  prejudices  and  his  palpable  antipathies.  His  ideas, 
too,  of  aristocratic  rights  and  privileges,  ideas  which  he  main 
tained  through  life  with  fanatical  infatuation,  often  cloud  an 
observation  otherwise  of  extraordinary  keenness.  These  Me- 
moires,  as  may  be  supposed,  are  exceedingly  popular  (though 
thus  far  the  English  reader  must  satisfy  himself  with  an  abridg- 
ment). Not  that  their  style  is  a  model  of  elegance,  finish,  or 
correctness  ;  on  the  contrary  it  is  occasionally  rough,  ungram- 
matical,  sometimes  even  obscure.  But  is  never  slovenly.  Like 
that  of  a  brilliant  short-hand  writer,  it  is  rapid,  energetic,  full  of 


268  NOTES. 

new  and  sparkling  images,  and  generally  of  a  wonderful  ease. 
Saint  Simon,  in  fact,  appears  to  avoid  purposely  everything  like 
care  and  finish  in  his  composition  ;  the  proud  Duke  would  con- 
sider it  a  degradation  to  be  taken  for  a  literary  man  ;  his  am- 
bition is  to  be  recognized  as  a  nobleman  amusing  himself  by 
talking  to  the  public.  He  entertains  them  with  everything,  and 
with  everything  well,  politics,  finances,  war ;  his  descriptions  of 
war  operations,  in  fact,  reveal  the  true  soldier. 

After  the  death  of  Louis  XIV.,  he  found  great  favor  w!th  the 
Duke  of  Orleans,  whom  he  considerably  aided  in  obtaining  the 
Regency  until  such  time  as  the  young  King  Louis  XV.  should  be- 
come of  age.  But  though  the  Regent  made  him  one  of  his  coun- 
cil and  often  consulted  with  him  in  difficult  matters,  he  often  dis- 
pleased him  by  disregarding  his  sensible  advice.  Very  soon  too 
the  haughty  Duke  got  himself  involved  in  a  serious  quarrel  with 
the  Parliament  and  the  legitimated  children  of  Louis  XIV.  Both 
these  parties,  he  considered,  were  conspiring  to  ruin  the  peerage, 
one  by  presuming  to  equal  it,  the  other  by  pretending  to  over- 
ride it.  The  middle  classes  and  their  representatives  partic- 
ularly, he  treated  with  sovereign  contempt,  and  in  a  pamphlet 
on  the  subject  he  had  no  hesitation  in  reminding  the  Parliament 
that  few  of  its  members  belonged  to  the  haute  noblesse,  and  that 
most  of  them,  indeed,  were  mere  parvenus,  objects  of  intense 
dislike  to  his  patrician  soul.  A  rejoinder  from  the  Parliament, 
though  probably  unauthorized  and  the  production  of  some  jester 
who  would  say  anything  to  raise  a  laugh,  made  a  good  deal 
of  fun  at  the  time  and  stung  the  sensitive  Duke  to  the  quick. 
"Saint  Simon  a  nobleman?"  it  asked,  "every  one  knows  to 
the  contrary.  It  is  not  so  long  ago  since  one  of  his  cousins  was 
groom  to  Marshal  Schomberg's  widow.  Descended  from  the 
house  of  Vermandois  ?  Does  he  expect  us  to  believe  that  the 
fancied  resemblance  between  one  of  his  quarterings  and  the 
coat  of  arms  of  that  illustrious  family  proves  any  such  descent? 
The  little  Duke's  vanity  is  crazy  enough  to  swallow  anything. 
In  his  genealogy  he  actually  makes  one  of  his  ancestors,  a 
crook-backed  German  lawyer,  a  member  of  the  noble  house  of 
Bossu!"     Only  a  man  of  the  most  overweening  vanity  could 


SAINT  SIMON.  269 

feel  hurt  by  such  silly  stuff  as  this.  But  that  is  precisely  what 
the  haughty  Duke  was.  Marmontel  says  of  him  with  great 
truth  :  "  In  the  nation  Saint  Simon  sees  nothing  but  the  nobility, 
in  the  nobility  nothing  but  the  peerage,  in  the  peerage  nothing 
but  himself."  To  the  parliamentary  squib  he  actually  took  the 
trouble  to  write  an  elaborate  Reply,  in  which  he  triumphantly 
demonstrated  his  descent  from  the  house  of  Vermandois  by  the 
most  incontrovertible  arguments. 

In  172 1,  the  Regent  sent  him  to  Spain  as  ambassador,  to  ask 
the  hand  of  one  of  the  Infantas  for  the  young  King  Louis  XV., 
and  to  conclude  a  marriage  between  the  Regent's  daughter  and 
the  heir  presumptive  to  the  Spanish  throne.  Though  the  first 
alliance  never  took  place  and  the  second  was  anything  but 
a  happy  one,  Saint  Simon  was  treated  with  great  distinction,  re- 
turnmg  to  France  as  Grandee  of  Spain  and  bearing  the  order  of 
the  Golden  Fleece  for  his  eldest  son.  Finding,  however,  that  his 
adversaries,  Dubois  and  Bourbon,  had  now  become  more  power- 
ful than  ever  and  that  the  legitimated  princes  had  been  restored 
to  many  privileges  of  the  blood  royal,  and  probably  also  dis- 
gusted with  the  scandals  of  a  licentious  court,  he  soon  broke 
off  relations  with  the  Regent,  and,  on  the  death  of  the  latter 
(1723)  retired  forever  from  public  affairs.  He  spent  the  last  32 
years  of  his  life  quietly  on  his  estates  in  La  Ferte,  putting  his 
Mhnoires  into  order  and  giving  them  the  final  touch. 

After  his  death  several  manuscript  copies  of  the  famous  work 
remained  a  long  time  in  possession  of  his  brother,  the  bishop 
of  Metz,  but,  at  the  suggestion  of  several  powerful  families 
afraid  of  scandal,  they  were  at  last  seized  by  the  government 
and  removed  to  the  public  archives,  where  Voltaire,  Marmontel, 
and  only  a  few  others  were  allowed  to  examine  them.  In  1791, 
a  partial  liberty  granted  to  the  press  allowed  an  imperfect  edition 
to  appear  in  Strasburg,  but  it  was  not  until  1829  that  Charles 
X.,  by  restoring  the  MS.  to  the  family,  allowed  Saint  Simon's 
grandson  to  give  the  complete  and  authentic  work  to  the  public. 

Taken  all  in  all,  it  is  the  most  curious  and  important  docu- 
ment that  can  be  consulted  by  the  student  of  the  later  years  of 
Louis  XIV.'s  reign.     It  is  a  comedy  of  a  hundred  acts,  where 
23* 


2/0  NOTES. 

the  players,  most  of  them  by  this  time  grown  old  and  rathei 
tired  of  their  long  parts,  pass  before  us  in  their  natural  colors, 
appearing  as  they  do  oftener  behind  the  scenes  than  on  the 
glittering  stage.  Nobody  is  presented  as  an  ideal  type  of  this, 
that,  or  the  other  class.  We  are  in  the  midst  of  a  vast  and 
well-lighted  gallery,  where  every  portrait  preserves  its  own 
name,  its  own  costume  and  its  own  physiognomy.  Here  and 
there,  no  doubt,  the  perfection  of  the  likeness  may  be  ques- 
tioned, but  the  expression  given  to  every  countenance  is  orig- 
inal, striking  and  peculiar.  These  Memoires,  in  short,  hold  the 
same  relationship  to  history  that  the  family  sitting-room,  where 
everything  is  unaffected,  natural,  and  therefore  always  true, 
holds  to  the  grand  parlor,  where  everything  is  premeditated, 
arranged  for  show,  and  therefore  often  false. 

Note  60  — BUFFON  — page  92. 

Jean  Louis  Leclerc,  better  known  as  the  Count  de  Buffon 
(1707-1788),  famous  writer  and  naturalist,  received  a  careful 
education  in  the  Jesuit  college  of  Dijon,  where  he  made  him- 
self remarkable  not  so  much  for  brilliant  success  as  for  perse- 
verance, steadiness,  and  capacity  for  protracted  labor.  Assured 
ot  an  easy  competence,  while  hesitating  between  his  own  pref- 
erence, mathematics,  and  the  law,  to  which  he  was  advised  by 
his  father,  a  councillor  of  the  Burgundy  parliament,  he  hap- 
pened to  make  the  acquaintance  of  a  young  EngHsh  nobleman, 
Lord  Kingston,  travelling  on  the  continent  with  his  tutor,  a  man 
of  ability,  good  sense,  and  mathematical  turn  of  mind.  Easily 
obtaining  permission  to  make  the  grand  tour  with  his  new  friends, 
he  visited  Italy  and  Switzerland  in  their  company  ;  and  it  was 
probably  the  contemplation  of  nature  in  her  varied  aspects  of 
beauty,  majesty  and  terrific  sublimity,  afforded  by  this  journey 
of  eighteen  months,  that  decided  young  Leclerc's  resolution  of 
devoting  the  rest  of  his  life  to  the  study  of  the  physical  sciences. 
He  accompanied  his  friends  even  to  England,  where,  the  better 
to  learn  the  language  and  at  the  same  time  to  pursue  his  favorite 
studies,  he  translated  from  the  English  the  Rev.  Stephen  Hales's 
Vegetable  Statics.     Translating  also  about   the  same  time  Sir 


BUFFON.  271 

Isaac  Newton's  Methodus  Fluxioinim  from  the  Latin,  he  pre 
sented  both  manuscripts  to  the  French  Academy  of  Sciences, 
which  so  highly  appreciated  them  as  to  publish  them  in  quarto 
at  its  own  expense. 

Becoming  a  member  of  this  Academy  in  1733,  he  presented 
it  with  occasional  papers  on  experiments  of  his  own  in  physics 
and  rural  economy,  such  as,  Ta?tnifig  with  Oak  Bark,  The  Ef- 
fects of  Cold  on  Vegetable  Growth,  The  Effect  of  Strippmg  off 
the  Bark  in  Hardening  Wood,  etc.,  the  most  important  of  his 
experiments  being  a  confirmation  of  Archimedes's  famous  ex- 
ploit of  setting  fire  to  distant  objects  by  means  of  burning 
mirrors.  Up  to  this  time,  in  all  these  pursuits  he  seemed  to  be 
animated  by  nothing  more  than  a  vague  desire  of  instruction 
and  glory,  but  his  career  was  finally  determined  in  1739  ^Y  ^^^ 
nomination  to  the  directorship  of  the  fardin  dii  Roi,  now  the 
Jardin  des  Plantes,  the  famous  Parisian  Botanical  and  Zoolog- 
ical Gardens  united  into  one.  The  biological  sciences  hence- 
forward became  the  great  employment  of  his  life. 

His  studies  by  this  time  having  thoroughly  familiarized  him 
with  most  of  the  observations  and  experiments  made  by  travel- 
lers and  naturalists,  with  the  truths  they  had  unquestionably 
discovered,  the  fallacies  they  had  undoubtedly  disproved  and 
the  questions  still  warmly  disputed,  having  also  learned  by  ex- 
perience the  difficulty  of  the  ordinary  reader  in  coming  to  any 
definite  conclusion  at  all  regarding  results  attained  by  different 
methods,  unconnected  and  often  apparently  contradictory,  Le- 
clerc  now  conceived  the  idea  of  uniting  all  these  scattered  re- 
sults into  one  great  harmonious  whole,  and  thus  giving  to  the 
world  at  large  a  popular  and  intelligible  idea  of  a  science  which 
till  then  had  existed  only  in  the  brain  of  a  few  philosophers. 
In  other  words,  he  was  the  first  man  that  ever  undertook  to 
make  a  grand  Digest  of  Natural  History.  The  task  was  a  vast 
one,  and  certainly  too  great  for  the  genius  of  any  one  individual, 
but  the  scientific  enthusiast  did  not  shrink  from  it.  Associating 
with  himself  his  friend  and  companion  Daubenton,  the  cool  and 
cautious  naturalist,  for  the  treatment  of  the  purely  scientific 
questions,  he  reserved  for  himself  the  general  description  of 


272  NOTES. 

the  animals,  the  painting  of  the  grand  phenomena  of  nature 
the  enunciation  of  the  bold  hypotheses,  in  a  word,  all  the  start 
ling,  thrilling,  eloquent  and  poetic  portions  of  the  work.  Ten 
yeais  did  the  two  friends  work  together  diligently  and  silently, 
gathering  materials,  studying  and  testing  facts,  tracing  relations, 
and  making  corrections  ;  at  the  end  of  that  time,  in  1749,  the 
first  three  volumes  of  the  famous  Natural  History  were  pre- 
sented to  an  astonished  and  delighted  world. 

Few  works  ever  achieved  such  instantaneous  success.  What- 
ever may  be  its  scientific  value  at  the  present  day,  it  certainly  at 
that  time  formed  an  epoch  in  the  study  of  the  natural  sciences. 
Everybody  thought  it  his  duty  to  become  a  scientist  in  order 
either  to  sustain  or  combat  the  new  views.  The  Theory  of  the 
Earth,  however,  gave  much  less  satisfaction,  even  to  his  most 
enthusiastic  admirers,  than  the  History  of  Man,  in  spite  of  some 
obscurities,  hasty  conclusions  and  frequent  contradictions  that 
disfigured  the  latter  work.  His  bold  hypotheses  regarding  the 
cosmogony,  indeed,  are  of  a  nature  that  man  cannot  verify, 
will  never  be  able  to  verify.  A  comet  striking  off  portions  of. 
the  sun,  these  vitrified  and  incandescent  portions  becoming 
planets  which,  cooling  by  degrees,  become  at  last  the  home  of 
organized  beings,  these  organic  molecules,  this  material  mech- 
anism trying  to  replace  the  instinct  of  animals,  etc.,  all  these 
are  mere  flights  of  fancy,  and  can  never  be  anything  else. 
"  Nevertheless,"  as  Cuvier  says,  "  Buffon  has  the  merit  of  being 
the  first  to  point  out  clearly  that  the  actual  condition  of  our 
globe  is  the  result  of  a  succession  of  changes,  of  which  we  can 
find  the  evidence  to-day ;  and  it  is  he  who  first  drew  the  obser- 
vation of  all  investigators  to  the  phenomenon  by  which  these 
changes  can  be  unravelled." 

As  to  his  merits  as  a  writer,  however,  there  can  be  but  one 
opinion.  For  breadth  and  grandeur  of  views,  for  vigorous  and 
stately  march  of  ideas,  for  noble  gravity  of  expressions,  and  for 
sustained  harmony  of  style  on  befitting  subjects,  few  writers 
have  ever  equalled  Buffon.  In  spite  of  a  little  turgidity  or 
pompousness  now  and  then  observable,  he  succeeds  in  clothing 
every  detail  with  an  enchanting  grace  ;  the  unavoidable  aridity 


BUFFO  N.  273 

of  some  of  his  subjects  he  succeeds  in  varying  or  concealing  by 
moral  reflections  always  natural  and  interesting,  often  profound ; 
and  his  pictures  of  the  grand  scenes  of  nature  are  masterpieces 
of  power,  truth,  and  impressive  eloquence. 

Twelve  volumes  more  appeared  at  pretty  regular  intervals 
until  1767,  when,  Daubenton  refusing  to  co-operate  any  more, 
because  Buffon  allowed  the  bookseller  to  publish  a  Cheap 
edition,  in  which  the  anatomical  and  scientifically  descriptive 
part  had  been  abridged  or  omitted  altogether,  Buffon  was 
obliged  to  write  the  next  nine  volumes.  The  History  of  Birds, 
with  the  assistance  of  two  friends  of  a  less  scientific  turn.  Here, 
therefore,  we  lose  in  rigorous  and  severe  anatomy,  though  per- 
haps we  gain  in  order,  Buffon,  in  spite  of  himself,  being 
obliged  to  recognize  the  necessity  of  a  more  logical  method 
and  of  a  stricter  observation  of  the  radical  distinction  between 
the  several  genera.  He  labored  alone  at  the  History  of  Min- 
erals (1783-1788),  a  work  necessarily  weak  and  imperfect,  as  he 
knew  little  of  chemistry  or  the  late  discoveries  in  mineralogy. 
1788  is  the  date  of  his  Epochs  of  Nature ,  his  chef  d'ceuvre,  for, 
though  the  new  theory  he  attempts  to  sustain  is  just  as  unsub- 
stantial as  the  former,  in  no  other  of  his  works  does  his  genius 
show  more  sublimity,  his  imagination  more  majestic  exuberance, 
or  his  style  more  vigor,  harmony,  and  irresistible  fascination. 

Long  before  this  his  reputation  had  been  widespread  and 
firmly  established,  the  most  distinguished  men  of  all  nations  ex- 
pressing their  admiration,  and  crowned  heads  lavishly  shower- 
ing the  proofs  of  their  esteem.  He  had  been  made  member  of 
the  French  Academy,  and  honorary  member  of  most  of  the 
learned  societies  of  the  world.  His  works  had  been  translated 
into  the  principal  languages  of  Europe.  Louis  XV.  had  raised 
him  to  the  rank  of  nobility,  with  the  title  of  Count  de  Buffon, 
and  Louis  XVI.  had  ordered  his  statute  to  be  erected  in  the  far- 
din  des  Piantes,  bearing  this  inscription,  Majestati  Natit7'CE  Par 
Ingeniiiin  (a  genius  equal  to  Nature's  majesty).  Yielding  at 
last  to  the  attacks  of  a  painful  disease,  the  stone,  from  which 
he  had  suffered  many  years,  he  gave  up  unwillingly  the  further 
prosecution  of  the  great  work  at  which  he  had  been  engaged  for 

S 


274  NOTES. 

fifty  years,  and  having  devoted  the  remaining-  days  of  his  Hfe 
to  enlarging  and  embeUishing  his  other  great  work,  the  "Jardin 
lies  Plantes,  he  died  a  quiet  Christian  death,  at  Paris,  in  the 
eighty-first  year  of  his  age. 

Buffon  had  a  handsome  person  and  a  noble  presence ;  his 
manners  were  courtly  and  elegant  but  kind  and  conciliating; 
instead  of  being  hurt  by  criticism,  he  often  warmly  thanked  his 
critic  for  pointing  out  his  errors.  Wits  have  attempted  to  amuse 
the  world  by  the  well-known  story  of  his  never  sitting  down  to 
write  unless  in  the  most  fashionable  court  dress,  with  frills,  lace 
ruffles,  powdered  wig,  etc.,  but  all  this  is  probably  exaggerated, 
and,  in  any  case,  it  is  a  very  slight  fault  to  find  with  the  great 
and  untiring  genius  that  first  rendered  natural  history  popular 
by  making  it  intelligible. 

We  cannot  help  presenting  the  reader  with  an  extract  from 
Buffon's  admirable  discourse  on  Style,  pronounced  at  his  re- 
ception in  the  French  Academy  and  alluded  to  by  Legouve.  It 
contains  his  celebrated  phrase. 

To  write  well,  we  must  at  once  think  well,  feel  well,  and  express  ourselves  well 
that  is,  we  must  have  wit,  soul,  and  taste.  Style  presupposes  the  exercise  of  all  the 
intellectual  powers  and  their  closest  union.  It  is  ideas  alone,  however,  that  form 
the  foundation  of  style,  harmony  of  words  being  a  mere  accessory,  and  depending 
on  the  sensibility  of  our  organs.  To  avoid  dissonances,  we  need  simply  have  some 
ear;  and  to  imitate  poetic  cadences  and  oratorical  turns,  we  need  simply  have  prac- 
tised and  perfected  this  ear  somewhat  in  reading  the  poets  and  studying  the  orators. 
But  imitation  never  creates;  harmony  of  words,  therefore,  can  never  form  the  foun- 
dation or  the  tone  of  style,  and  it  is  often  met  with  even  in  writings  destitute  of  ideas. 
The  tone  of  style  is  its  suitableness  to  the  nature  of  the  subject;  never  forced,  it 
springs  of  its  own  accord  from  the  matter  in  hand,  and  depends  nearly  altogether  on 
the  elevation  of  the  point  to  which  we  have  lifted  our  thoughts.  If  our  ideas  are 
broad,  comprehensive,  far  reaching,  and  if  their  subject  is  at  the  same  time  of  an  in- 
spiring nature,  our  tone  will  rise  to  the  same  elevation  ;  and  if  while  sustaining  it 
at  this  height,  our  genius  is  able  to  impart  a  strong  light  to  every  object,  to  add  beauty 
of  coloring  to  strength  of  outline,  in  a  word,  if  we  are  able  to  represent  every  idea 
by  a  lively  and  sparkling  image  and  to  form  every  group  of  ideas  into  a  harmonious 
and  spirited  picture,  our  tone  becomes  not  only  lofty,  but  even  sublime. 

Well  written  works  alone  descend  to  posterity.  Vast  exteiit  of  learning,  interesting 
singularity  of  facts,  surprising  novelty  even  of  discoveries  are  by  no  means  certain 
passports  to  immortality.  If  these  works  are  composed  on  some  insignificant  object, 
if  they  are  written  without  taste,  without  nobility,  without  genius,  they  will  certainly 
perish,  for  learning,  facts  and  discoveries  are  easily  transferred  elsewhere,  and  even 
profit  by  being  written  by  an  abler  pen.     All  such  things  are  external  to  man  ;  Stylm 


DE  MUSSET.  275 

Ks  OP  THB  MAN  HIMSELF.  Style  Can  never  be  transferred,  nor  stolen,  nor  changed; 
if  it  is  elevated,  noble,  sublime,  the  author  will  be  admired  forever;  for  it  is  truth 
alone  that  is  durable  and  even  eternal. 


Note  61— DE  MUSSET  — page93. 

Louis  Charles  Alfred  de  Musset  (1810-1857),  dramatic 
writer  and  poet  of  a  style  most  charming  and  unique,  son  of  the 
author  of  an  interesting  History  of  Rousseau,  was  educated  in 
the  College  Henry  IV.,  Paris,  where  he  became  intimately  ac- 
quainted with  the  Duke  of  Orleans,  Louis  Philippe's  eldest  son 
and  the  father  of  the  present  Count  de  Paris.  Restless  and 
versatile  in  the  extreme,  he  tried  in  turns  medicine,  law,  bank- 
ing, painting,  and  at  last  settled  down  to  letters.  In  his  six- 
teenth year  he  had  written  a  tragedy,  and  in  his  eighteenth  had 
received  a  prize  for  the  elegance  of  his  Latin  dissertation.  A 
great  admirer  of  Victor  Hugo,  and  embracing  the  doctrines 
of  the  Romantic  school  with  as  much  ardor  as  he  afterwards 
showed  in  renouncing  them,  he  published  a  book  of  Poems, 
which,  in  spite  of  their  unbridled  and  erotic  character,  attracted 
much  attention  as  indicative  of  decided  poetic  ability.  In  1833 
appeared  his  charming  Proverbs,  perfect  gems  of  French  liter- 
ature, many  of  which  have  been  played  with  great  success  [A 
Caprice,  No  Swearing;  No  Jestitig  with  Love,  The  Door  must 
be  Shut  or  Open,  etc.),  though  generally  never  intended  to  be 
acted.  In  1836  his  prose  romance,  Confessio7is  of  a  Child  of 
the  Century,  probably  told  the  story  of  his  own  life.  New  Tales 
and  Stories  followed,  extorting  unqualified  admiration  for  their 
pure  and  nervous  style,  but  still  severely  criticised  for  their  ideas 
and  sentiments.  A  new  collection  oi  Poems,  published  in  1850, 
was  hardly  equal  to  his  earlier  works,  which  made  Heine  say 
"  He  is  a  youth  of  a  glorious  past!  "  In  1852  he  was  elected 
member  of  the  French  Academy. 

Through  the  influence  of  his  friend  the  Duke  of  Orleans  he 
had  been  appointed  librarian  of  the  ministry  of  the  interior  in 
the  reign  of  Louis  Philippe,  and  Louis  Napoleon  had  made  him 
librarian  of  the  ministry  of  public  instruction,  still,  possessing 
no  personal  estate  of  his  own  and  decidedly  luxurious  in  his 


276  NOTES. 

habits  of  living,  he  was  never  out  of  money  difficulties.  In- 
capable of  restraining  his  mania  for  pleasure,  he  drained  the 
cup  of  enjoyment  to  the  dregs,  and  died  of  premature  old  age. 

If  De  Musset's  life  is  a  painful  picture  of  the  passionate,  in- 
tensely restless,  and  licentious  youth  of  his  day,  his  Poetns  too 
leave  anything  but  a  pleasing  impression  on  the  mind  of  the 
general  reader.  They  taste  like  peaches  and  opium.  They  are 
a  mixture  of  the  bitterest  irony  and  the  sweetest  poetry,  of  the 
profoundest  depth  and  the  shallowest  frivolity,  of  delirious  joy 
and  heart-bleeding  despair.  It  may,  however,  be  acknowledged 
that,  though  in  his  earher  poems  a  fool-hardy  materialist,  towards 
the  end  of  his  mortal  career,  when  somewhat  chastened  by  long 
and  painful  suffering,  he  seems  to  hesitate  a  little  between  the 
mockery  of  a  skeptic  and  the  enthusiasm  of  a  believer.  This 
is  shown  especially  by  his  Espoir  en  Dieti,  a  characteristic  poem, 
Dy  no  means  free  from  irreverence  and  blasphemy,  but  evidenc- 
ing some  moral  aspirations  expressed  with  a  soothing  melan- 
choly grace  full  of  charm.  His  prose  has  all  the  clearness, 
finish  and  elegance  of  Voltaire,  a  master  whom  he  unhappily 
took  for  his  model  in  too  many  respects. 

With  all  his  faults  it  is  not  at  all  surprising  that  for  awhile  De 
Musset  was  the  most  popular  poet  of  young  France.  Without 
the  grandeur  and  harmony  of  Lamartine,  or  the  power  and  ex- 
uberance of  Victor  Hugo,  he  surpasses  both  these  poets  in 
spontaneous  ease,  passionate  expression,  and  perfection  of  lan- 
guage. He  often  reminds  us  of  Byron  and  Heine,  but  with  a 
difference.  He  has  more  art  than  either.  With  less  command- 
ing intellect  than  the  Englishman,  he  has  more  heart,  sincerity 
and  tenderness ;  with  less  depth  than  the  German,  he  is  often 
grander,  nobler,  and  always  freer  from  affectation.  All  three 
unfortunately  were  equally  paralyzed  by  the  same  weakness  of 
character.  Continually  lifting  towards  heaven  their  gleaming 
eyes,  they  seemed  to  glory  in  tottering  feebly  through  the  upas 
valley  of  self  debasement.  Then,  unwilling  to  see  that  wrong 
7nnst  bring  punishment,  that  life  is  only  decay,  and  too  cowardly 
to  bear  its  ups  and  downs  bravely  like  the  rest  of  us,  they  fall 
to  crying  like  children  and  do  all  they  can  to  make  the  world 


DE  MUSSET,  277 

miserable  by  their  frantic  tirades  against  fiite,  and  death,  and 
particularly  against  our  great,  good,  and  incomprehensible  God. 
What  good  can  such  poetry  do  mankind  ?  What  good  has 
De  Musset's  poetry  done  France  ?  Good  !  His  insolent  Rhin 
Allemand  has  done  her  more  harm  than  a  million  of  German 
bayonets.  The  German  song  is  poetic,  and  can  offend  nobody. 
Where  is  the  son  of  Vaterland  who  does  not  feel  the  blood  boil 
in  his  veins  at  De.Musset's  reply,  a  tolerable  translation  of  which 
we  borrow  from  some  newspaper  ? 

Why,  we  have  had  it,  your  German  Rhine! 

It  has  served  to  rinse  our  glasses. 
The  boasting  ballad  you  think  so  fine. 
Will  it  heal  the  scar  that  passes 
Where  our  charging  horse  spilt  German  blood  like  wine? 

Yes,  we  have  had  it,  your  German  Rhine  I 

There  is  a  wound  that  is  open  ever 
Where  Conde  in  triumph  rent  the  vine  — 
Green  robe  of  your  sacred  river; 
Shall  the  son  not  follow  the  sire  of  the  conquering  line? 

Yes,  we  have  had  it,  your  German  Rhine! 

What  availed  your  German  virtue 
When  the  Caesar  of  France,  that  soul  divine. 
With  his  eagle  talons  hurt  you? 
Where  fell  the  bones  of  the  men  whose  loss  ye  pine? 

Yes,  we  have  had  it,  your  German  Rhine ! 

If  you  quite  forget  your  history, 
Your  girls  remember — their  eyes  would  shine 

Of  their  glee  they  made  no  mystery 
As  they  brimmed  our  goblets  with  your  weak  white  win* 

If  it  is  yours,  this  German  Rhine, 

Why,  lave  your  livery  in  it  ; 
But  don't  keep  up  such  a  boastful  whine ! 

In  our  Eagle's  fatal  minute 
Your  myriad  ravens  pecked  at  his  sunny  eyne. 

Let  it  peacefully  flow,  your  German  Rhine  \ 

Reflecting  tower  and  steeple  — 
But  keep  within  a  moderate  line 
The  yell  of  your  frantic  people. 
Lest  ye  wake  our  mighty  dead  from  their  rest  divine. 
24 


2/8  NOTES. 

Note  62  -  LAM ARTINE  — page  94. 

Alphonse  M.  L.  de  Lamartine  (1790-1869),  illustrious  poet, 
orator,  statesman,  and  historian,  member  of  a  distinguished 
family  in  Burgundy,  passed  his  childhood  in  the  quiet  seclusion 
of  the  castle  of  Milly,  near  Macon,  where  his  father,  the  Chev- 
alier de  Lamartine,  a  most  devoted  royalist,  endeavored  to  give 
him  some  sort  of  an  education  during  the  stormy  years  of  the 
Revolution.  His  books  were  few,  Telemachns,  Paul  and  Vir- 
ginia,  an  illustrated  Bible,  and  ye7'usalem  Delivered,  forming 
the  chief  stock  of  the  family  library,  but  they  were  almost  the 
only  books  he  ever  read  more  than  once.  His  extraordinary 
genius,  in  fact,  owed  nothing  to  books,  nothing  to  labor,  noth- 
ing to  study  ;  he  wrote  his  poetry,  made  his  speeches,  announced 
his  plans,  composed  his  histories  without  more  effort  than  it  costs 
a  tree  to  give  out  leaves  or  water  to  run  down  hill.  "  I  sing," 
he  says  himself,  "  as  man  breathes,  as  the  dove  coos,  as  the 
wind  sighs,  as  water  murmurs  in  its  flow."  Except  arithmetic, 
the  only  branch  of  education  that  he  ever  tried  to  study  but 
which  he  could  never  master,  he  knew  everything  by  instinct. 
Intellectually  he  was  born  an  impro visor,  as  the  rest  of  us  are 
born  tall  or  short,  fair  or  dark. 

His  mother,  having  Httlc  faith  in  domestic  education,  sent  him, 
in  his  twelfth  year,  to  the  parish  priest's  house  to  learn  Latin, 
but  the  Abbe  Dumont,  a  poor  disciplinarian,  allowed  his  pupil 
to  spend  more  months  on  the  mountains  with  the  goat-boys  than 
days  in  the  class-room  with  his  books.  His  uncle,  the  Abbe  de 
Lamartine  not  liking  this  state  of  things,  sent  him  to  a  school 
in  Lyons  in  1805.  But  the  noisy  life  of  a  city  college  being  in- 
supportable to  such  a  nature,  he  ran  off  one  morning  with  a  com- 
panion, and  tried  to  find  his  way  home.  Hunger  attacking  the 
boys,  they  entered  an  inn  foi  breakfast.  "  This  is  Friday,"  says 
young  De  Vedel,  "  we  must  ask  for  eggs."  "  My  mother  often 
told  me,"  says  young  Lamartine,  "  that  travellers  are  not  bound 
to  abstain.  No  omlet,  landlord,  but  a  nice  chicken  ;  and  set  the 
table  for  two."  "  Set  the  table  for  three  !  "  cries  a  well-known 
voice  —  that  of  the  schoolmaster,  who  soon  brought  back  the 


LAMARTINE,  279 

fuj^itivcs.  But  the  parents,  hearing  of  the  escapade,  took  him 
from  Lyons  and  sent  him  to  the  Jesuit  College  of  Belley,  not 
far  from  the  Lake  of  Bourget  in  Savoy. 

There  he  did  little  more  than  draw  horses  on  his  slate  and 
scribble  over  his  books,  his  delicate  health  exempting  him  from 
punishment,  yet  there  he  remained  three  years,  the  despair  of 
his  teachers,  the  puzzle  of  his  schoolmates,  as  great  an  idler  in 
the  playground  as  in  the  study  hall.  It  was  there,  however, 
that  he  formed  a  life-long  friendship  with  De  Verieu  and  De 
Vignet,  nephews  of  the  De  Maistres,  and  names  well  known  to 
readers  of  his  poetry. 

A  month  before  leaving  the  college  forever,  he  suddenly  took 
it  into  his  head  to  compete  for  the  prizes.  The  workers,  the 
steady  fellows,  laugh  in  their  sleeves  on  examination  day  as 
they  see  the  dawdler  scratching  away  at  his  French  discourse 
and  his  French  dissertation,  and  trying  to  put  in  order  the  bits 
of  paper  on  which  he  has  scrawled  his  Latin  translation  and  his 
Latin  theme ;  but  they  laugh  on  the  other  side  of  the  mouth  when 
they  hear  young  Lamartine's  name  called  out  for  all  the  first 
prizes.  This  was  his  way  through  life  —  everything  by  spurts, 
nothing  by  labor.  Inability  to  correct,  to  examine,  to  weigh, 
was  the  great  blot  on  his  character.  Had  he  only  had  the 
patience  to  do  full  justice  to  his  first  inspirations,  whether  in 
poetry,  religion,  or  politics,  he  would  have  been  the  first  man 
of  his  century,  perhaps  of  any  century. 

What  shall  he  do  at  Milly  ?  He  tries  gardening,  but  a  month's 
labor  gives  him  a  surfeit  of  horticulture.  He  tries  hunting,  but 
the  sight  of  the  first  hare  he  wounds  brings  tears  to  his  eyes. 
He  takes  the  poor  animal  home,  puts  its  broken  leg  in  splints, 
feeds  it  and  pets  it  morning  and  evening,  and  renounces  hunt- 
ing forever.  What  shall  he  do  ?  Scramble  over  the  hills  ?  He 
has  all  the  hills  by  heart,  and  he  soon  returns  home,  tired  and 
listless.  He  takes  up  a  book,  the  first  at  hand,  and  in  three 
minutes  he  is  fast  asleep.  "Assuredly,"  says  his  father,  the 
Chevalier,  gazing  at  him  in  despair,  "  an  officer  is  all  we  shall 
ever  make  out  of  our  Alphonse." 

One  day,  however,  he  did  not  fall  asleep  over  his  book,  a 


280  NOTES. 

0 

translation  of  Byron's  Childe  Harold.  The  anti-religious,  anti- 
monarchic  sentiments  of  the  poem  shocked  him,  but  the  brill- 
iancy of  its  genius  attracted  him.  Taken  up  and  flung  down 
twenty  times,  he  read  the  book  at  last  from  cover  to  cover  and 
dreamed  of  it  all  night.  To  escape  the  haunting  suggestions 
of  the  poem,  he  rises  next  morning  at  daybreak,  starts  off  for 
the  hills,  climbs  the  steepest  slopes  and  returns  towards  evening, 
weak  and  feverish.  His  mother,  alarmed,  puts  him  to  bed,  gives 
him  a  warm  drink,  but,  as  soon  as  she  leaves  the  room,  he 
jumps  up,  seizes  pen  and  paper,  and  in  an  hour  writes  his  Ode 
to  Byroji.     He  was  cured. 

The  ode  is  read  next  morning  for  the  sisters,  for  his  mother; 
all  five  go  into  ecstasies  over  it  and  insist  on  his  reading  it  foi* 
his  father ;  the  Chevalier  sees  but  little  merit  in  the  lines  ;  they 
are  very  different  from  the  poetry  he  is  accustomed  to  :  "  De- 
lille's,  for  example."  "  Delille  !  "  crie's  the  young  poet  irrev- 
erently, "  why,  he  has  little  genius,  no  imagination."  "  Our  Al- 
phonse,"  interrupts  the  Chevaher  turning  to  his  wife,  "  is  worse 
than  lazy,  he  is  presumptuous."  But  the  ode  has  aroused  a 
storm  in  the  young  man's  soul  hard  to  allay.  It  has  given  hira 
a  glance  at  his  destiny.  He  feels  unhappy ;  the  calm,  sleepy 
life  of  Milly  oppresses  him  ;  he  chafes  as  if  in  a  cage.  The 
house  all  at  once  seems  dull  and  the  hills  uninteresting.  But 
how  can  he  reach  the  mountains  ?  The  Chevalier  is  severe, 
money  is  scarce,  the  rich  legacies  which  are  to  make  the  poet 
wealthy  are  still  far  off.  His  mother,  however,  slips  her  little 
savings,  a  purse  of  forty  dollars,  into  his  pocket ;  his  eldest 
sister  gives  him  her  gold  watch  ;  the  other  sisters,  while  packing 
his  valise,  contrive  to  hide  their  pocket-money  among  his  col- 
lars and  handkerchiefs.  He  starts  for  Savoy.  Adieu,  fireside  ! 
Now  for  mountains,  lakes,  avalanches,  Italy,  the  sea,  freedom, 
poetry,  romance,  the  memories  of  which  are  to  enchant  the 
world  ten  years  later. 

His  return  to  the  paternal  mansion  was  but  a  preparation  for 
a  new  departure.  After  a  summer  in  Tuscany,  he  spent  the 
winter  of  1811-12  at  Rome,  in  the  dwelling-house  of  an  old 
painter,  seeing  nobody  and  totally  immersed  in  study  and  con- 


LA  MAR  TINE  28 1 

templation.     18 12  and  18 13  he  passed  in  Naples,  particularly  in 
;hat  delightful  part  of  the  shore 

Whence  the  faint  breath  of  hisci  ?us  orange  groves 
Swoons  on  Sorrento's  silver-fretted  sea. 

In  1814  his  parents  recalled  him  to  France,  where  he  was  ap- 
pointed to  a  position  in  the  King's  body-guards  ;  Napoleon's 
return  drove  him  to  Switzerland,  but  Waterloo  soon  restored 
him  to  a  position  which  his  strongly  royalist  sympathies  made 
him  endure  for  awhile  in  spite  of  his  dislike  of  a  military  life. 
Paris,  however,  as  he  says  himself,  he  could  never  relish.  "  It 
affects  me,  it  wearies  me ;  oriental  I  was  born  and  oriental  I 
shall  die.  Solitude,  deserts,  seas,  mountains,  horses,  nature  to 
admire,  a  wife  to  love,  a  friend  to  talk  to,  long  reposes  of  body 
devoted  to  deep  aspirations  of  soul,  then  violent  and  adventur- 
ous periods  of  action  — that  is  my  ideal ;  a  life  in  turns  poetic, 
religious,  heroic  —  or  nothing."  The  greater  part  of  the  next 
two  years  was  spent  in  Savoy,  where  his  intimate  acquaintance 
with  the  great  Catholic  writer.  Count  Joseph  De  Maistre,  just 
returned  from  Russia,  by  confirming  him  in  his  religious  opin- 
ions, exercised  a  highly  salutary  influence  over  his  effervescent 
imagination.  The  desire  to  see  a  lady,  often  alluded  to  in  his 
Meditations,  brought  him  back  to  Paris  in  18 18,  where  by  this 
time  he  had  begun  to  obtain  some  renown,  the  most  exclusive 
salons  hailing  him  as  the  rising  poet  of  France.  The  days  he 
devoted  to  study  and  composition,  the  evenings  to  pleasant  inter- 
course with  his  friends.  One  of  these,  the  young  Duke  de  Ro- 
han, afterwards  Cardinal,  presented  him  to  Madame  de  Saint 
Aulaire,  whose  apartments  were  the  headquarters  for  Acade- 
micians, statesmen,  orators,  writers —  in  a  word,  the  centre  of 
tlie  elegant,  poetic  and  literary  world  of  Paris.  It  was  here 
that  the  young  poet,  taking  a  leaf  out  of  his  portfolio,  read 
aloud  the  little  poem  of  The  Lake.  "  Angels  of  heaven,  wha,t 
music  !  "  cried  Madame  de  Saint  Aulaire.  The  enthusiasm  of 
the  rest  of  the  company  was  equally  great.  To  realize  this  en- 
thusiasm we  must  remember  how  weary  refined  ears  had  by 
this  time  become  of  the  hand-organ  poetry  of  the  Empire,  on 
24* 


282  NOTES. 

which  the  Restoration  had  not  as  yet  made  the  slightest  im- 
provement. 

Some  time  before  this,  Lamartine  had  seriously  thought  of 
giving  his  poetry  to  the  world,  but  he  could  find  no  publisher. 
The  poet  tells  us,  in  Raphael,  his  experience  on  the  subject  with 
M.  Firmin  Didot,  the  great  printer  and  publisher,  himself  a 
scholar  and  a  poet.  "With  a  beating  heart  I  went  up  stairs, 
but  remained  a  long  time  outside  the  door,  not  daring  to  knock. 
Some  one  came  out.  The  door  remaining  open,  I  had  to  enter. 
Monsieur  D.'s  face  was  as  calm  and  as  close  as  an  oracle's. 
He  made  me  sit  down,  and  pulling  my  manuscript  out  from 
under  a  pile  of  paper,  '  I  have  read  your  verses,'  said  he  ;  'they 
are  not  without  talent,  but  they  are  without  study.  They  re- 
semble in  no  respect  what  is  found  and  what  is  expected  among 
our  best  poets.  It  is  hard  to  say  where  you  have  got  the  lan- 
guage, the  ideas,  the  images  of  your  poetry.  It  can't  be  classed 
definitely  with  any  kind  known  thus  far.  A  great  pity,  for  it  is 
decidedly  harmonious.  I  would  advise  you  to  renounce  these 
novelties  so  contrary  to  French  genius  and  sure  to  end  by 
exiling  it.  Read  our  masters,  our  Delilles,  our  Fontanes,  etc. 
These  are  the  poets  the  public  relishes.  Resemble  some  one  of 
them,  if  you  want  to  be  recognized  and  read.  I  should  give 
you  a  bad  advice  in  counseling  you  to  publish  this  volume  ;  I 
should  render  you  an  evil  service  in  publishing  it  at  my  ex- 
pense.' "  But  at  last  an  obscure  publisher,  named  NicoUe, 
consented  to  print  the  Meditations,  and  they  appeared  in  1820. 
The  success  of  the  work  was  great,  especially  among  the  Cath- 
olic and  aristocratic  families.  Even  the  critics,  while  noting  its 
occasional  negligences,  could  not  withhold  their  admiration  for 
its  freshness,  its  originality  and  its  frequent  phrases  of  un- 
questioned classic  finish.  But  it  was  the  women  and  the  young 
men  in  particular  that  showed  themselves  especially  enthusiastic 
over  these  harmonious  and  sweetly  melancholy  inspirations  of 
a  soul  suffering  and  delicate,  but  consoling  itself  by  revery,  the 
contemplation  of  nature  and  the  adoration  of  Infinite  Being. 
"There  is  real  greatness  in  this  volume,"  says  Sainte-Beuve ; 
"  it  is  wonderfully  well  composed  without  showing  it ;  Romance 


LAAfARTINE.  283 

slips  in  to  fill  up  whatever  space  Religion  left  unoccupied  ;  the 
weeping  elegy  wails  beside  the  triumphant  canticle."  It  was 
soon  acknowledged  throughout  the  world  that  France  had  a  new 
poet,  one  worthy  of  the  name,  one  enriching  her  poetic  liter- 
ature with  a  new  and  charming  style  of  his  own. 

Such  success  instantly  threw  open  every  door  to  Lamar.vi ». 
The  government  made  him  brilliant  offers.  A  diplomatic  career 
best  suiting  his  love  of  travel  and  his  desire  for  leisure  to  con- 
tinue his  poetic  studies,  he  was  appointed  attache  to  the  legations 
successively  of  Florence  and  London,  and  finally  he  was  sent 
as  secretary  to  Naples.  It  is  said  that  whilst  moving  about  one 
evening  at  a  masked  ball  in  Italy  he  heard  a  tender  and  melo- 
dious voice  murmuring  in  his  ear  a  passage  from  his  own  Med- 
itations:  "  Perhaps  the  future  has  in  store  for  me  a  return  of 
the  happiness  that  I  now  deem  lost  forever;  perhaps  in  the 
crowd  some  soul,  that  I  at  present  know  nothing  of,  will  once 
more  understand  my  heart  and  respond  to  it."  It  was  the  voice 
of  a  fair  young  English  lady.  Miss  Marianna  Birch,  rich  and 
well  connected,  who  took  this  method  of  expressing  her  interest 
in  the  poet.  The  acquaintance  thus  renewed  soon  ripened  into 
mutual  love  and  in  a  few  months  resulted  in  a  happy  marriage. 

The  Ne7u  Meditations,  published  in  1823,  fully  sustained  the 
reputation  of  the  former.  The  Stars,  The  Preludes,  The  Cruci- 
fix, Bonaparte,  in  particular,  being  pieces  of  the  highest  poetic 
excellence.  He  spent  five  years  at  Florence  as  French  minister 
and  whilst  there  published  the  Last  Canto  of  Childe  Hat'old,  in 
testimony  of  his  admiration  for  Byron,  whom,  however,  he  could 
not  equal  in  that  style  of  poetry.  This  poem,  too,  came  very 
near  having  serious  consequences.  In  a  severe  apostrophe  to 
Italy  he  had  alluded  bitterly  to  her  apathy  and  resignation  ;  the 
two  following  lines  in  particular  : 

ye  vais  chercher  ailleurs ,  pardonne,  ombre  romaine, 
Des  homines  et  non  pas  de  la  poussi^re  humainey 

(Elsewhere,  pardon  me,  O  shade  of  Rome  !  elsewhere  I  must  seek  men  and  not 
buman  dust,) 

hurt  the  susceptibilities  of  a  Colonel  Pepe,  a  Neapolitan  revolu- 


284  NOTES. 

tionist  at  that  time  residing  in  Florence,  who  sent  the  French 
minister  a  challenge.  Lamartine,  who  loved  Italy  and  would 
be  the  last  in  the  world  to  insult  an  unhappy  nation,  having  no 
alternative  left  but  to  fight,  was  so  severely  wounded  that  for  a 
few  days  his  life  was  despaired  of  In  1829  he  published  his 
Religious  Harmonies,  a  work  in  which  his  genius  showed  itself 
richer  and  deeper  than  ever,  proving  him,  as  was  said  at  the 
time,  to  be  a  most  briUiant  and  able  defender  of  the  throne  and 
the  altar.  In  this  same  year  he  was  recalled  to  France  to  be 
offered  the  ministry  of  foreign  affairs,  which,  however,  he  would 
not  accept,  preferring  the  plenipotentiaryship  to  Greece.  He 
was  elected  to  the  French  Academy  in  1830,  the  illustrious  Cu- 
vier  welcoming  him  with  marked  kindness  and  eloquence.  He 
was  travelling  in  Switzerland  when  the  Revolution  broke  out. 

Attached  to  the  fallen  dynasty,  he  immediately  renounced  his 
diplomatic  career ;  but,  in  spite  of  his  legitimist  sympathies,  he 
had  always  maintained  towards  the  Restoration  a  dignified  and 
independent  attitude,  never  showing  any  servility,  never  offering 
to  play  the  part  of  a  court  poet.  He  could,  therefore,  without 
exposing  himself  to  the  charge  of  ingratitude  or  versatility,  take 
his  place  in  the  ranks  of  those  who  regarded  the  Revolution  as 
an  accomplished  fact  and  the  white  flag  exiled  forever.  In  a 
pamphlet,  Rational  Politics,  published  in  1 831,  he  already  lets 
us  see  that  he  has  little  confidence  in  royalty  of  any  kind  and 
that  he  considers  the  dynasty  of  July  as  a  mere  transition.  He 
entreats  the  new  government  not  to  place  confidence  in  itself, 
but  in  the  nation ;  not  to  create  a  peculiar  interest  for  itself 
amidst  the  general  interests  of  the  country,  not  to  concern  itself 
so  much  about  its  existence  as  its  mission.  "  If  the  govern- 
ment understands  this  mission,"  he  says,  "and  devotes  itself, 
not  to  its  own  interests,  but  to  the  disinterested  salvation  of  the 
nation,  to  the  broad  and  solid  establishment  of  free  and  rational 
order,  it  will  triumph  over  all  obstacles,  it  will  create  what  its 
evident  mission  is  to  create,  it  will  last  as  long  as  necessary  things 
ought  to  last,  until  they  have  accomplished  their  work  —  itself  a 
transition  to  another  order  of  thmgs  more  advanced  and  more 
perfect.     But  if  the  government  does  not  understand  itself,  if  it 


LA  MAR  TINE,  285 

docs  not  turn  to  due  account,  for  the  benefit  of  liberty  and 
humanity  in  general,  the  fugitive  moments  allowed  to  it ;  if  it 
does  not  see  that  a  broad,  straight  and  unimpeded  road  is  open 
before  it,  along  which  it  can  carry  minds,  laws  and  facts  to  a 
point  from  which  no  retrogade  movement  is  possible ;  if  it 
deems  itself  of  any  account,  if  it  stops  or  turns  aside,  it  will 
perish,  and  whole  ages  may  perish  too  before  the  same  oppor- 
tunity occurs  again."  This  pamphlet  attracted  so  much  atten- 
tion among  the  thinkers  of  the  day  that,  believing  the  moment 
was.  come  when  it  was  every  citizen's  duty  "  to  think,  speak, 
act  and  take  sides  with  the  family  of  families,  the  nation  at 
large,"  he  allowed  himself  to  be  nominated  for  deputy  at  Toulon 
and  Dunkirk.  The  common  people  knew  very  little  of  him  at 
this  time.  But  his  defeat  probably  gave  him  less  disappoint- 
ment thau  pleasure.  It  left  him  free  to  undertake  what  he  had 
long  coveted,  a  pilgrimage  to  the  Holy  Land. 

To  sleep  under  the  palms  where  Jacob  had  slept,  to  mourn  on 
the  hills  where  Christ  had  mourned,  to  roam  over  the  land 
sanctified  by  His  blessed  feet,  such  had  been  the  dream  of  his 
childhood,  which  circumstance  now  permitted  him  to  realize. 
He  also  hoped  that  the  journey  would  restore  the  health  of  Julia, 
his  only  child,  the  idol  of  her  parents,  and  then  seriously  threat- 
ened with  consumption.  The  latter  expectation,  unfortunately, 
was  not  destined  to  be  fulfilled.  At  the  very  time  that  her 
health  seemed  completely  reestablished  by  the  genial  air  of  the 
Mediterranean,  the  charming  child  suddenly  expired  after  a  two 
days'  illness,  in  the  arms  of  her  parents,  at  a  country  house  in 
the  neighborhood  of  Beyrout.  The  account  of  this  journey, 
which  he  has  given  us  in  Le  Voyage  en  Orient,  is  a  work  of 
world-wide  fame,  full  of  elevated  thoughts  on  poetry,  politics, 
and  religion,  though  perhaps  more  interesting  to  a  poetic  or 
reflecting  mind  than  to  the  curious  lover  of  adventures.  He 
travelled  like  a  prince  by  sea  and  land,  the  Turks  and  Arabians 
universally  saluting  him  as  the  Frankish  Emir.  The  most  inter- 
esting episode  in  the  journey  was  his  conversation  with  Lady 
Hester  Stanhope,  Pitt's  eccentric  niece,  the  "Queen  of  Leb- 
anon," so  celebrated  for  her  knowledge  of  the  occult  sciences  and 


286  NO  TES. 

her  disdain  for  conventionality.  From  this  conversation  we  ara 
tempted  to  give  some  extracts,  hoping  curiosity  will  send  the 
reader  for  full  information  to  the  book  itself. 

Stanhope.  ...  Sit  down  and  chat :  we  are  already  friends.  Lamaktine.  .  .  . 
You  know  not  who  I  am.  S.  .  .  .  I  am  in  possession  of  a  science,  lost  in  Europe, 
but  still  existing  in  the  East.  I  can  read  the  stars.  ...  I  have  seen  you  but  a  few 
minutes  —  Your  name  I  cannot  tell,  but  I  know  you  as  well  as  if  I  had  lived  an  age 
with  you.  .  .  .  Would  you  like  me  to  foretell  your  destiny  ?  L.  .  .  .  I  should  think 
it  were  profaning  the  prerogatives  of  the  Deity  to  ask  the  revelation  of  hidden  secrets 
from  his  creature.  In  matters  of  futurity  I  believe  only  in  God,  liberty,  and  virtue. 
S.  Believe  what  you  please.  .  .  .  You  are  one  of  those  ardent  and  well-intentioned 
men  whom  God  needs  as  instruments  in  the  marvellous  works  he  is  soon  to  accom- 
plish. Do  you  believe  the  reign  of  the  Messiah  has  arrived?  L.  I  am  a  Christian. 
S.  {with  some  slight  ridicule)  A  Christian  !  .  .  .  What  are  your  reasons  for  believ- 
ing in  Christ?  L.  .  .  .  There  are  two  luminaries  given  to  mankind;  one  enlightens 
the  mind,  but  it  is  liable  to  controversy  and  doubt,  and  it  often  leads  me  to  error  and 
mistake;  the  other  illuminates  the  heart,  and  never  deceives,  for  it  is  at  once  evi- 
dence and  conviction,  and  to  us  poor  miserable  mortals  truth  is  only  conviction.  .  . 
I  believe  in  Christ  because  he  has  brought  into  the  world  the  holiest,  the  most  fertile 
and  the  most  divine  doctrine  that  ever  radiated  over  the  human  understanding;  so 
•celestial  a  doctrine  cannot  be  the  product  of  deception  and  falsehood.  .  .  .  This  is 
why  I  am  a  Christian  ;  and  this  is  all  the  religious  controversy  I  ever  have  with  my- 
self. With  others  I  have  none.  A  man  can  have  nothing  proved  to  him  unless  he 
believes  it  already.  S.  But  do  you  find  the  social,  political,  and  religious  state  of 
the  world  so  well  ordained  as  not  to  need  the  Messiah  that  we  wait  for,  whom  oi^r- 
hopes  already  see?  L.  ...  In  the  confusion  of  man's  beliefs,  in  the  tumult  of  his 
disordered  ideas,  in  the  vacuity  of  his  heart,  in  the  depravity  of  his  social  state,  in 
the  repeated  shakings  of  his  political  institutions,  I  see  the  necessity  for  a  Healer, 
and  I  am  convinced  that  He  must  be  divine.  But  in  this  Messiah  I  do  not  see  a 
new  incarnated  Christ.  He  has  appeared  already  and  has  nothing  more  to  confer 
of  wisdom,  virtue,  truth.  But  I  see  His  Holy  Spirit,  still,  as  He  has  promised, 
continually  aiding  mankind,  and  revealing  to  them,  according  to  time  and  need,  what 
they  ought  to  know  and  do.  ...  In  //im  I  believe,  I  hope  in  Him,  I  wait  for  Him, 
and,  more  than  you,  my  lady,  I  invoke  Him.  .  .  .  S.  {sviiling)  Believe  what  you 
will,  you  are  not  the  less  one  of  the  men  I  have  been  looking  for,  who  have  to  play 
a  great  part  in  the  work  now  in  preparation.  You  will  soon  return  to  Europe  —  Eu- 
rope is  doomed — Prance  alone  has  a  great  task  to  fulfil.  You  will  take  a  great 
part  in  it  —  what,  as  yet,  I  know  not  .  .  .  You  speak  like  a  man  that  puts  too  much 
faith  in  the  human  7«/// and  too  little  in  the  irresistible  dominion  of  (/^.y^/wy.  ...  I 
hope  you  are  an  aristocrat.  You  look  like  one.  L.  You  mistake,  my  lady.  I  am 
neither  aristocrat  nor  democrat.  I  have  seen  both  sides  of  the  medal  of  human 
nature,  and  have  found  that  one  is  as  rough  as  the  other.  ...  I  am  an  advocate 
exclusively  of  what  will  ameliorate  the  whole  of  mankind,  whether  they  be  born  at 
the  top  or  the  foot  of  the  social  tree.  ...  I  do  not  believe  that  either  aristocratic 
or  democratic  institutions  have  the  exclusive  power  of  perfecting  humanity.  That 
power  rests  only  in  a  divine  morality,  which  is  the  oflTspring  of  a  perfect  religion. 
The  civilization  of  nations  lies  in  their  religious  faith.     S.  That  is  true  ;  yet  I  am  ar. 


LAMARTINE.  287 

arii.tocrat  in  spite  of  myself.  .  .  .  You  will  agree  that,  if  there  are  some  vices  in 
aristocracy,  there  are  at  least  exalted  virtues  connected  with  them,  as  an  atonement 
and  counterpoise;  whilst  in  democracy  I  see  many  vices,  often  the  lowest  and  most 
hideous,  but  in  vain  do  I  seek  exalted  virtues.  L.  .  .  .  There  are  vices  on  both 
sides,  but  in  the  higher  classes  these  vices  have  a  brilliant  appearance,  whereas  in 
the  lower  classes  they  are  shown  in  all  their  nakedness  ...  In  the  one,  vice  is  a 
choice,  in  the  other  often  a  necessity.  ...  S.  ...  I  hope  you  are  not  to  be  counted 
among  those  Frenchmen  who  take  pleasure  in  exciting  the  stormy  populace  against 
all  the  dignities  that  God,  nature,  and  society  have  set  up ;  who  pull  down  the  edi- 
fice in  order  to  build  with  its  ruins  a  pedestal  for  their  own  base  envy.  .  .  .  L.  .  .  . 
1  am  one  of  those  who,  while  they  honor  all  those  above  them  in  the  social  system, 
do  not  despise  all  those  below,  and  who  hope  or  dream  to  call  all  men,  without  ref- 
erence to  their  position  in  arbitrary  arrangements,  to  the  same  light,  liberty,  and 
moral  perfection. 

Lamartine  was  recalled  from  the  East  by  the  intelligence  that 
the  inhabitants  of  Bergues,  near  Dunkirk,  had  elected  him  as 
their  representative  in  the  Assembly.  He  immediately  took 
his  seat  and  continued  to  be  a  public  man  for  eighteen  years. 
In  1834  the  inhabitants  of  Macon,  jealous  of  seeing  their  illus- 
trious countryman  representing  another  city,  gave  him  their 
votes,  but  Lamartine  decided  in  favor  of  Bergues,  which  had  re- 
elected him.  But  in  1837,  the  Maconnese  havin  :j  once  more 
unanimously  renominated  him,  unable  to  resist  this  mark  of 
respect  and  admiration,  he  withdrew  with  regret  from  Bergues, 
which  had  re-elected  him  for  the  third  time.  For  the  next  twelve 
years  he  was  one  of  the  most  popular  representatives  in  France. 
His  home  was  at  Sa-int  Point,  not  far  from  his  ancesiral  Milly. 

In  the  Assembly,  too  independent  to  join  either  party,  natu- 
rally conservative  and  indisposed  to  factious  opposition,  he  aided 
the  government  whenever  he  thought  his  assistance  was  neces- 
sary. "  The  first  duty  of  a  government,"  said  he  in  one  of  his 
early  speeches,  "is  to  live ;  whether  good  or  bad,  it  represents 
something  more  necessary  than  liberty  itself — order,  public 
peace,  security  of  life,  security  of  property.  These  we  have  a 
right  to  demand  from  it,  but,  in  its  turn,  it  has  the  right  to  de- 
mand from  us  the  means  to  live.  For  my  part  I  shall  never 
higgle  with  the  government  in  a  moment  of  danger.  But,  that 
moment  once  passed,  order  once  reestabhshed,  I  shall  demand 
a  strict  account  of  the  power  with  which  it  had  been  temporarily 
intrusted.     I  shall  say  :  What  have  you  done  to  prevent  the 


288  NOTES. 

return  of  such  a  fatal  necessity  ?"  Next  year  he  handled  with 
little  mercy  the  tricky  politicians  who,  having  upset  the  legiti- 
mist government  in  the  name  of  liberty,  did  not  hesitate  to 
commit  every ^petty  tyranny  for  the  benefit  of  the  new  dynasty. 
"  It  is  not  your  business,"  he  cried,  "to  muzzle  the  press,  to  put 
off  every  useful  reform,  to  render  useless  a  revolution  accom- 
plished by  the  people,  to  present  to  Europe  the  demoralizing 
spectacle  of  men  employing  the  most  sacred  hopes  of  humanity 
as  arms  whereby  to  conquer  political  offices,  who  persecute  with 
recriminations  and  insult  the  very  flag  that  has  led  them  to 
victory,  blaspheming  what  they  have  adored,  adoring  what  they 
have  crushed,  and  corrupting  the  people  by  trying  to  show  that 
in  politics  there  is  neither  truth  nor  falsehood,  neither  virtue 
nor  vice,  and  that  the  world  belongs  to  the  greatest  knave,  or 
the  most  daring  adventurer." 

These  extracts  explain  sufficiently  why  he  remained  so  long 
in  a  state  of  political  isolation  ;  no  party  seeking  any  advantage 
for  itself  could  count  on  him  as  a  permanent  ally.  Politics, 
however,  though  unable  to  make  him  neglect  his  poetry,  pre- 
vented him  from  bestowing  on  it  all  the  attention  necessary 
for  complete  success.  The  poetic  Muse  is  a  jealous  mistress. 
Jocelyn,  which  appeared  in  1836,  though  a  touching  poem,  full 
of  beautiful  images,  and  replete  with  Christian  morality,  is  too 
often  prolix  and  unequal  to  deserve  unqualified  admiration.  In 
An  AngeVs  Fall,  1838,  the  same  defects  reappear,  somewhat 
redeemed,  however,  by  occasional  passages  of  extraordinary 
power  and  grandeur  showing  an  abuse  rather  than  any  decay 
of  the  poetic  faculty.  Even  his  friends  complained,  but  in  1839 
he  gave  the  world  his  last  verses  under  the  name  of  Contem- 
plations, and  in  the  preface  announced  his  resolution  hence- 
forward to  make  poetry  subservient  to  politics.  It  is  not  sur- 
prising then,  that  of  all  his  poems,  his  first.  The  Meditations,  is 
generally  considered  to  be  his  best. 

In  spite  of  his  renunciation  of  poetry,  the  part  Lamartine  took 
in  politics  was  not  as  yet  very  active,  though,  as  he  still  held 
himself  aloof  from  party,  his  eloquence  made  him  a  power 
respected,  if  not  feared,  in  the  Assembly.     In  the  Eastern  ques* 


LAMARTINE.  289 

tiou,  1840,  he  held  somewhat  peculiar  views  :  the  two  Turkeys 
should  be  divided,  he  said,  into  provinces  or  protectorates,  which 
should  be  made  over  to  the  different  European  powers,  Russia 
receiving  Constantinople,  France  Syria,  England  Egypt,  etc. 
In  1843  he  broke  off  finally  with  the  conservatives  as  too  inert, 
too  selfish,  too  dead  to  the  glory  of  the  nation.  "  Convinced," 
said  he  in  his  memorable  discourse,  "  that  the  government  is 
wandering  farther  and  farther  from  its  true  principles,  whi' h 
should  have  nothing  in  view  but  our  happiness  at  home  and 
respect  abroad  ;  convinced  that  every  step  France  has  taken 
for  the  last  eight  years  has  been  a  step  backward ;  convinced 
that  the  moment  for  flatteries  and  compliments  is  gone  forever, 
I  here  offer  my  conscientious  vote  against  the  address,  against 
the  spirit  animating  it,  against  the  government  accepting  it ;  I 
shall  combat  it,  with  regret  but  with  firmness,  in  its  past,  its 
present,  and  perhaps  in  its  future."  But,  though  such  speeches 
as  these  were  sinking  deeply  into  the  minds  of  men,  the  voters 
at  large  never  seemed  to  read  them.  Guizot's  bureaucracy 
had  an  easy  triumph.  The  elections  of  1846  gave  his  Cabinet 
a  considerable  majority,  composed  principally  of  public  func- 
tionaries. The  opposition,  finding  argument  of  no  avail  and 
election  a  farce,  was  nonplussed  for  a  while,  but  even  the 
wildest  demagogues  .hardly  dreamed  of  starting  a  new  revolu- 
tion. 

It  was  at  this  dangerous  moment  that  Lamartine's  famous 
History  of  the  Girondins,  appearing  as  a  serial  in  one  of  the 
Parisian  journals,  astounded  all  parties  alike  by  his  open  sym- 
pathy with  democratic  principles.  In  all  probability  it  was  this 
work  that  hurled  Louis  Philippe  from  his  throne.  France  had 
become  tired  of  revolutions ;  Lamartine's  "History"  made  a 
new  one  possible.  "See  what  he  did,"  says  Sainte-Beuve. 
"  Unwittingly  he  set  a  trap  into  which  both  himself  and  the 
nation  fell.  A  true  poet,  he  undertook  to  write  history.  Im- 
possible task.  His  brilliant  imagination  gave  a  coating  of  glory, 
harmony,  and  light  to  the  dark  and  hideous  pictures  of  the 
Revolution.  He  concealed  their  horror ;  he  gave  them  prestige ; 
over  this  reeking  quagmire  of  blood  and  garbage  he  threw  the 

PROPERiy  OF 

ftrn^nTRflTMT  nr  nnAiuiiTin   inr 


290  NOTES. 

grandeur  of  the  Milky  Way  and  the  splendor  of  the  rainbow.** 
"  By  his  magic  evocation,"  said  another  author,  "  he  summoned 
up  the  mighty  shades  of  the  heroes  and  martyrs  of  '89  and  '93, 
pointing  with  silent  reproach  at  our  feebleness,  dispelling  our 
apathy,  and  making  us  ashamed  of  our  cowardice." 

The  opposition,  never  dreaming  to  what  extremities  this  ex- 
citement of  the  public  feeling  could  be  aroused,  and  resolving 
to  make  use  of  it  to  upset  the  ministry,  organized  reform  ban- 
quets all  through  the  departments.  Lamartinc,  who  belonged 
to  no  fraction  of  the  opposition,  and  who  liked  Thiers  even  less 
than  Guizot,  had  a  banquet  for  himself  at  Macon,  where,  in 
very  clear  terms,  he  laid  before  his  electors  the  approaching  fall 
of  the  House  of  Orleans.  "  If  Royalty,"  said  he,  "  deceives  the 
hopes  which  the  revolution  of  1830  placed  less  in  its  nature  than 
in  its  name  ;  if  it  isolates  itself  in  its  Constitutional  elevation ; 
if  it  does  not  incorporate  itself  entirely  in  the  minds  and  the 
legitimate  interests  of  the  masses  ;  if  it  surrounds  itself  by  an 
electoral  aristocracy  rather  than  by  the  entire  people  ;  if,  with- 
out openly  opposing  the  will  of  the  nation,  it  corrupts  this  will, 
and  purchases,  under  the  name  of  influence,  a  dictatorship  the 
more  dangerous  as  it  has  been  bought  under  the  cloak  of  the 
Constitution ;  if  it  allows  us  to  descend,  as  we  are  descending 
surely  and  steadily,  into  the  tragic  depths  of  corruption  ;  if  it 
allows  the  nation  and  posterity  to  be  afflicted  and  humiliated  by 
the  dishonesty  of  the  public  officers,  it  will  fall !  This  royalty 
be  convinced  of  it,  will  fall,  not  in  its  own  blood,  like  that  of 
'89,  but  in  its  own  trap.  So,  after  having  our  revolutions  of 
liberty,  and  our  counter  revolutions,  we  shall  have  the  revolu- 
tion of  the  public  conscience,  the  revolution  of  contempt !  " 

Guizot  was  too  blind  to  see  the  approaching  storm,  or  too 
improvident  to  prevent  it.  He  stubbornly  remained  in  office, 
though  he  saw  his  splendid  majority  of  office-holders  dwindle 
down  to  33.  A  banquet,  forbidden  by  the  authorities,  and  sev- 
eral times  deferred,  was  finally  fixed  to  take  place  February 
22,  1848  ;  but  at  a  late  hour  on  the  21st  a  proclamation  was  issued 
to  interdict  it.  The  opposition  decided  at  once  not  to  attend  the 
banquet,  but  to  impeach  the  ministry.     What  happened  next  is 


LA  MAR  TINE.  2gl 

well  known.  Barricades  were  thrown  up  by  the  excited  popu- 
lace in  different  parts  of  Paris  on  the  22d.  On  the  23d,  the 
National  Guard  having  joined  the  insurgents,  the  Guizot  minis- 
try resigned,  a  Thiers  ministry  was  formed,  and  everything  ap- 
peared to  have  come  to  a  quiet  end.  But  all  that  night  the 
secret  societies,  unwilling  to  lose  the  opportunity  that  govern- 
mental mismanagement  had  afforded  them,  were  at  work  quietly, 
but  very  effectively.  The  first  news  Louis  Philippe  heard  on  the 
morning  of  the  24th  was  that  all  Paris  was  in  a  state  of  insur- 
rection ;  the  troops,  disgusted  with  contradictory  orders,  were 
doing  little  or  nothing  by  way  of  resistance  ;  the  National  Guard 
was  fraternizing  with  the  insurgents  ;  the  Thiers  proclamations 
were  torn  down  ;  the  Palais  Royal  was  taken  and  plundered  by 
the  populace  ;  and  that  it  was  their  shouts  that  were  now  heard 
ringing,  loud  and  menacing,  only  a  few  squares  off. 

Louis  Philippe,  utterly  bewildered,  abdicates  in  favor  of  his 
grandson,  the  young  Count  of  Paris,  and  starts  for  England. 
The  Duchess  of  Orleans,  leading  her  children  by  the  hand, 
enters  the  Chamber  of  Deputies,  into  which  a  rough  crowd  of 
National  Guards  and  insurgents  have  already  burst,  headed  by 
Ledru  Rollin,  and  crying,  "  down  with  the  venal  majority  ! ' 
and  "  let  us  have  a  provisional  government !  "  Odillon  Barrot's 
powerful  speech  in  favor  of  the  Duchess  as  regent  is  rapturously 
applauded  by  some,  but  violently  hissed  and  hooted  at  by  others. 
Shouts,  yells,  and  uproar  fill  the  hall.  It  is  a  moment  big  with 
the  fate  of  France.  Suddenly  Lamartine's  name  is  heard. 
Deputies  and  Democrats  alike  hail  him  with  applause  as  he 
takes  his  way  to  the  tribune.  The  howling  assembly  becomes 
as  still  as  death.  His  words  are  listened  to  as  intently  as  if  they 
were  decrees  of  fate. 

"  Gentlemen,"  he  begins,  "  I  participate  as  profoundly  as  any 
man  in  the  twofold  sentiment  pervading  this  assembly  at  the 
sight  of  one  of  the  most  touching  spectacles  that  the  annals  of 
humanity  can  present — that  of  an  august  princess  sheltering 
herself  in  her  affliction,  beneath  the  innocence  of  her  children, 
fleeing  from  a  deserted  and  invaded  palace,  and  throwing  her- 
self into  the  sanctuary  of  popular  representation.     But  I  have 


292  NOTES. 

a  sense  no  less  lively  of  the  respect  due  to  the  people.  ...  I 
cannot  suppose  that  a  momentary  acclamation,  extorted  by  an 
honorable  emotion  from  an  assembly  melted  to  tenderness  by  a 
natural  feeling,  can  establish  a  stable  and  undisputed  govern- 
ment over  a  population  of  thirty-six  millions.  I  know  that  what 
one  burst  of  popular  enthusiasm  may  create  another  may  de- 
stroy. I  know  that,  in  order  to  escape  a  recurrence  of  the  crisis 
in  which  we  are  placed,  it  is  of  consequence  to  have,  not  an 
ephemeral  government,  but  a  stable,  a  national,  a  popular,  in 
short,  ati  immovable  order  of  things.  How  are  we  to  arrive  at 
this  immovable  basis  ?  By  goi7ig  to  the  very  foundations  of  the 
people  and  the  country,  by  extracting  from  natio7ial  rights  the 
^rcat  secret  of  universal  sovereignty ,  whence  issue  all  order, 
all  liberty,  all  truth.  We  want  a  government  which  shall  put 
an  end  to  the  terrible  and  unsuspected  state  of  things  existing 
for  years  between  the  different  classes  of  our  citizens,  hindering 
our  mutual  recognition,  and  preventing  our  harmonious  union. 
....  I  demand  that  we  instantly  constitute  a  conditional  govern- 
ment T' —  He  is  still  speaking  when  a  new  crowd  of  despera- 
does, bursting  into  the  hall,  puts  an  end  to  further  discussion. 
But  the  dictum  has  been  pronounced.  The  monarchists,  on 
whom  Lamartine's  speech  has  fallen  like  a  thunderbolt,  slip 
away  in  silent  terror.  The  Duchess  and  her  children  escape, 
not  without  danger  of  losing  their  lives.  Lamartine  himself  is 
seriously  threatened  by  insurgents  who  mistake  him  for  an 
"  enemy  of  the  people."  But,  brave  as  a  lion,  and  compeUing 
obedience  by  his  magnetic  .presence,  he  has  old  Dupont  de 
I'Eure  carried  to  the  deserted  chair,  and,  selecting  six  such 
names  as  he  considers  best  for  the  proposed  provisional  govern- 
ment, he  hands  them  to  him  for  nomination.  They  are  all 
ratified  with  volleys  of  applause,  his  own,  the  third  on  the  list, 
with  the  wildest.  Then,  hurrying  to  the  Hotel  de  Ville,  the  new 
government  enters  at  once  on  its  duties,  proclaims  the  Orleans 
dynasty  fallen,  a  republic  established,  and  demands  the  adhesion 
of  the  army  and.  the  civil  authorities.  Proclamations  signed  by 
well  known  and  respected  names  instantly  restore  tranquillity. 
The  threads  of  government,  so  rudely  snapped,  are  rapidly  re- 


LAMAR  TINE.  293 

united.  February  24th,  beginning  with  a  monarchy,  ends  with 
a  repubhc. 

But  this  is  not  the  repubhc  desired  by  a  dangerous  portion  of 
the  populace  of  Paris.  The  twenty-fifth  dawns,  the  most  dan- 
gerous day  France  has  ever  encountered.  Self-appointed  sen- 
tries have  guarded  the  city  without  much  trouble,  and,  soothed 
by  the  magic  word  republic,  startled  Paris  has  rested  pretty  well. 
But  the  Terrorists  and  the  Communists,  indignant  that  they  are 
not  represented  in  the  new  government,  have  been  preparing 
their  plans.  Early  in  the  morning,  armed  with  every  kind  of 
weapon,  they  surround  the  Hotel  de  Ville  and  throng  the  neigh- 
boring streets,  waving,  the  red  fiag,  and  tearing  down  the  tri- 
color wherever  they  find  it.  Numbering  30  or  40  thousand 
men,  they  soon  burst  the  doors  of  the  Hotel  de  Ville,  but  the 
great  majority  remains  outside,  singing  the  Marseillaise  and 
rapidly  lashing  itself  into  fury.  "Who  are  the  men,"  cry  its 
orators,  "  that  have  surprised  and  plundered  our  government  ? 
Let  us  depose  and  expel  them !  We  must  make  our  republic 
ourselves  !  Down  with  the  flag  of  royalty,  reminding  us  of  our 
slavery  and  its  crimes.  Hurrah  for  the  Red  one,  the  symbol  of 
our  freedom  !  "  Towards  noon  the  square  is  densely  packed 
and  the  windows  and  roofs  are  hung  with  red.  The  savagest 
characters  in  the  world  are  to  be  found  in  that  howhng  mob ; 
once  it  breaks  out,  where  will  its  violeace  end  ?  No  police  is 
there,  no  army.  Nothing  like  an  officer,  except  a  few  poly- 
technic students,  one  to  a  thousand.  If  Paris,  France  rather, 
was  ever  saved  by  man,  that  man  was  Lamartine.  Five  times 
he  tries  to  make  himself  heard  from  the  balconies,  but  the  roar- 
ing multitudes  drown  his  voice.  At  last,  mounted  on  a  ,straw- 
bottomed  chair,  where  he  was  held  by  a  few  devoted  friends, 
surrounded  by  an  infuriated  mob,  his  earnest  accents  command 
attention  and  by  degrees  silence  prevails. 

He  begins  by  soothing  the  assemblage  by  a  hymn  upon  the 
victory,  so  sudden,  complete,  and  unexpected  even  by  the  most 
ardent  lovers  of  liberty.  He  calls  God  and  man  to  witness  the 
admirable  moderation  and  religious  humanity  exhibited  by  the 
people  in  the  combat  and  in  the  hour  of  triumph.     He  rekindles 

25* 


294  NOTES. 

the  sublime  instinct  that  had  thrown  the  people  still  armed,  but 
obedient  and  disciplined,  into  the  arms  of  a  few  men  who  had 
devoted  themselves  to  calumny,  exhaustion  and  death  for  the 
safety  of  all. 

"  That  is  what  yesterday's  sun  has  seen  !  "  he  continues.  "  But 
what  do  you  want  to-day's  sun  to  witness  ?  A  different  kind  of 
people,  only  still  more  furious  from  having  fewer  enemies  to 
combat,  distrusting  those  very  men  you  had  yesterday  put  in 
office  ;  curtailing  their  liberty  ;  humbling  their  dignity  ;  despis- 
ing their  authority  which  is  in  fact  your  own  ;  substituting  a 
revolution  of  vengeance  and  punishment  for  a  revolution  of 
humanity  and  fraternity  ;  and  commanding  your  government  to 
raise  in  token  of  concord  the  standard  of  mortal  hatred  between 
citizens  of  the  same  country  !  That  terrible  Red  Flag  has  been 
raised  sometimes,  in  moments  of  hot  blood,  as  a  scarecrow  to 
enemies,  but  once  that  the  fight  is  over,  it  should  be  instantly 
lowered,  in  sign  of  reconciliation  and  peace.  I  would  rather 
hoist  the  black  flag  -which,  in  besieged  cities  floats  like  a  winding 
sheet,  to  distinguish  those  neutral  edifices  which  are  consecrated 
to  humanity  and  which  even  the  enemy's  bullet  and  bomb  must 
respect.  Is  it  your  wish  that  the  banner  of  your  republic  should 
be  more  menacing  and  sinister  than  the  flag  of  a  bombarded 
town  ?  .  .  .  You  have  the  power  to  offer  violence  to  your  gov- 
ernment ;  you  have  the  power  to  command  it  to  change  the 
banner  of  the  nation  and  the  name  of  France.  But  if  you  are 
so  ill-advised  and  so  obstinate  in  error  as  to  impose  upon  it  the 
republic  of  a  party  and  the  flag  of  terror,  the  government,  I  am 
well  assured,  is  fully  determined  to  perish  rather  than  to  dis- 
honor itself  by  obeying  you  !  As  for  myself,  never  shall  my 
hand  sign  such  a  decree!  Even  unto  death  shall  I  reject  this 
banner  of  blood;  SLud  you  should  repudiate  it  still  more  de- 
cidedly. For,  the  red  flag  you  offer  us,  saturated  in  our  own 
people's  blood,  has  only  gone  around  the  Champ  de  Mars, 
whereas  the  tricolor  has  made  the  circuit  of  the  world,  with  the 
name,  and  the  glory,  and  the  liberty  of  our  country !  " 

History  shows  no  more  prodigious  triumph  of  eloquence  in 
ancient  or  modern  times  than  was  witnessed  on  this  occasion. 


LAMARTINE.  295 

Electrified  by  the  orator*s  burning  words,  or  stung  to  the  quick 
by  his  taunts,  the  furious  mob  rends  the  air  with  shouts  of  Vive 
la  Rt'publiqiic  !  so  fiercely  menacing  that  the  cowed  Terrorists, 
fuming  with  wrath  and  disappointment,  quietly  slink  away,  lower- 
ing the  odious  flag,  but  revolving  plans  for  its  undoubted  triumph 
at  the  next  opportunity. 

Th[s  was  the  day  of  Lamartine's  greatest  glory.  The  defeat 
of  the  red  flag  turned  all  France  Republican,  and  conciliated 
the  sympathies  of  Europe.  If  his  superhuman  exertions  on  this 
day  had  cost  him  his  life,  his  name  would  be  treasured  for  ever 
as  that  of  the  most  illustrious  martyr  of  true  liberty  that  the 
world  has  ever  seen.  But  he  was  too  much  of  a  grand  poet  to 
be  a  wise  statesman.  Unwilling  to  face  the  dreadful  alternative 
of  exterminating  the  secret  societies  with  fire  and  sword,  and 
probably  exaggerating  their  numbers  and  importance,  he  thought 
he  could  hold  them  in  check  by  allying  himself  closely  with 
Ledru  RoUin,  their  representative  and  nominal  ruler.  This  un- 
natural union  he  tried  to  explain  by  comparing  himself  to  a 
iightning-rod  silently  drawing  off  the  terrible  power  it  cannot 
avert,  but  the  mistake  was  fatal  for  the  success  of  the  Republic. 
The  moderate  party,  losing  confidence  in  its  ability  to  maintain 
order,  surrendered  it  with  little  hesitation  to  Louis  Napoleon. 
At  the  elections  for  President  in  1849,  Paris  gave  fewer  votes  to 
her  preserver  Lamartine  than  to  Raspail  the  conspirator  !  The 
Coup  diktat  of  1851  finally  disgusting  him  with  politics,  he  re- 
tired altogether  from  public  Hfe',  and  devoted  the  rest  of  his  days 
exclusively  to  literature. 

Unfortunately  the  production  of  books  had  now  become  a 
matter  of  unavoidable  necessity.  His  princely  splendor  had 
plunged  him  deeply  in  debt,  and  to  a  relief  from  this  oppression 
every  moment  of  his  life  was  now  devoted,  though  now  up- 
wards of  sixty.  His  industry  was  indefatigable,  but  works  pro- 
duced under  high  pressure,  seldom  have  the  savory  flavor  of 
spontaneous  growth.  His  Confidences,  his  Tales,  his  Histories, 
his  Biographies,  his  Fainiliar  E7iteriai7inients ,  etc.,  did  not  much 
unprove  his  fortune,  though  he  expended  more  genius,  talent, 
and  labor  in  these  ephemerals  than  would  be  required  for  two 


296  NOTES. 

or  three  works  sure  of  immortality.  His  friends'  attempts,  hew- 
ever,  to  raise  a  national  subscription  in  his  behalf,  not  proving 
successful,  the  city  of  Paris  presented  him  with  a  country-seat 
in  the  Bois  de  Boulogne,  and  in  1867  Napoleon  III.'s  govern- 
ment allowed  him  a  life  interest  in  a  capital  of  $100,060.  In 
1868  the  Emperor  offered  to  discharge  unconditionally  his  debts, 
amounting  to  $120,000,  but  this  generous  offer  the  old  Republi- 
can poet  refused  to  accept.  The  death  of  his  wife,  a  most 
estimable  woman,  in  1863  had  made  him  very  unhappy  and 
fretful,  and  this  with  his  other  troubles,  no  doubt  helped  to  cast 
a  melancholy  cloud  over  the  closing  years  of  his  life.  An  im- 
perial decree  prescribed  that  his  funeral  should  be  celebrated  at 
the  expense  of  the  State,  but  the  poet  having  left  express  orders 
that  he  should  be  buried  in  his  own  estate  at  Saint  Point,  his 
dying  wishes  were  religiously  complied  with. 

What  good  has  Lamartine  done  for  France  ?  He  has  chas- 
tened her  poetry  by  inventing  a  poem  which  combines  the  inten- 
sest  passion  with  the  highest  morality.  For  sixteen  years  he 
has  given  the  world  the  example  of  an  eloquent  and  enlightened 
statesman,  never  thinking  of  himself,  but  incessantly  battling 
for  the  advancement  of  true  liberty  by  infusing  the  spirit  of 
Christianity  into  the  legislation  of  his  country.  Finally,  at  a 
most  critical  period,  without  a  soldier,  without  even  a  police- 
man, by  his  courage,  his  magnanimity,  and  his  entrancing 
eloquence,  he  saved  the  nation  by  dispersing  the  Red  Republic, 
that  afterwards,  when  it  had  got  the  upper  hand,  murdered  the 
archbishop  and  sixty-four  priests,  blew  up  the  chief  buildings 
of  the  city,  laughed  Thiers  and  his  parliament  to  scorn,  and 
that  cost  MacMahon  nearly  three  months'  incessant  fighting,  at 
the  head  of  150,000  men,  to  subdue  it! 

Note  63  — VICTOR  HUGO  — page  94. 

Count  Victor   Marie  Hugo   (1802 ),  poet,   novelist, 

artist,  dramatist,  orator,  statesman,  essayist,  satirist,  one  of  the 
most  celebrated  and  best  known  men  of  the  century,  was  born 
at  Besancjon,  eastern  France,  in  the  same  year  that  Bonaparte 
was  declared  Consul  fqr  life.     From  his  very  birth  he  inherited 


VICTOR   HUGO.  297 

quite  opposite  tendencies.  His  father,  of  a  noble  Lorraine 
family  of  a  few  hundred  years'  creation,  entering  the  revolution- 
ary army  as  a  private  soldier,  had  signally  distinguished  him- 
self by  his  valor  on  the  Rhine,  in  La  Vendee,  on  the  Danube. 
In  Italy,  where  he  helped  to  capture  and  hang  the  notorious 
brigand  Fra  Diavolo,  he  attracted  the  attention  and  won  the 
confidence  of  King  Joseph  Bonaparte,  who,  when  removing  to 
Spain,  carried  General  Hugo  along  with  him,  and  made  him 
governor  of  several  provinces.  His  mother,  the  daughter  of  a 
Breton  shipbuilder,  a  royalist  in  soul  and  marrow,  had  been 
hunted  by  the  revolutionary  soldiers  through  the  Bocage,  in 
company  with  Madame  de  la  Rochejaquelein  and  other  heroines 
of  La  Vendee.  Her  sufferings  and  experiences  during  this  death- 
less episode  must  have  filled  her  with  such  a  hatred  against  the 
Revolution  and  its  abettors  that  we  cannot  understand  why  she 
married  Citizen  Hugo  at  all.  Even  the  children's  earliest  in- 
fancy shared  in  the  restless  activity  of  these  stirring  times. 
"  Before  life,"  as  the  poet  himself  says,  he  traversed  Europe, 
the  first  three  years  of  his  existence  being  spent  in  Elba,  and 
the  next  two  in  Paris.  Thence  taken  again  to  Italy,  the  chil- 
dren with  their  mother  returned  to  Paris  in  1809,  the  year  that 
the  father  followed  King  Joseph  to  Spain.  Victor  remained  in 
Paris  two  years,  trying  to  learn  Latin  from  an  old  priest,  and 
also  from  a  proscribed  general.  La  Horie,  hiding  in  his  mother's 
house.  The  tragic  fate  of  this  general,  Victor's  godfather,  who 
was  discovered  and  put  to  death  for  complicity  in  Malet's  con- 
spiracy, powerfully  strengthened  the  royalist  ideas  which  the 
mother  had  already  planted  in  the  boys'  tender  minds. 

In  181 1,  the  General  holding  a  high  position  in  Spain,  the 
family  removed  to  Madrid,  where,  however,  Victor  and  his 
brothers  could  study  no  longer  than  one  year  at  the  College  of  the 
Nobles,  the  threatening  aspect  of  affairs  driving  the  mother  and 
children  once  more  back  to  Paris.  It  is  to  this  short  stay  in 
Spain,  however,  that  some  have  attributed  not  only  the  poet's 
early  love  of  Spanish  literature,  but  also  his  somewhat  Spanish 
cast  of  character,  his  seriousness,  his  stateliness,  his  pride,  his 
sensitiveness,  so   often  degenerating  into  stubbornness,  if  not 


298  NOTES. 

positive  sulk.  The  Empire  came  to  an  end  whilst  Victor  and 
his  brother  were  finishing  their  classical  education  in  a  private 
school  kept  by  a  M.  Delariviere,  and  General  Hugo,  separated 
at  last  from  his  wife  by  political  as  well  as  domestic  troubles, 
sent  the  boys  to  a  mathematical  school  to  prepare  them  for  the 
Polytechnic,  expecting  them  to  become  soldiers. 

Young  Victor  studied  his  mathematics,  but  he  liked  poetry 
better.  His  early  wanderings  through  Europe,  which  would 
have  spoiled  a  less  studious  intellect,  had  taught  him  as  if  by 
instinct  many  things  that  school-boys  can  never  learn,  especially 
developing  his  poetic  talent.  At  the  age  of  fifteen,  the  poem  he 
sent  to  the  French  Academy,  to  compete  for  the  annual  prize, 
was  of  such  remarkable  merit  that  the  judges  would  have  unani- 
mously awarded  it  the  crown,  had  not  the  author,  perhaps  from 
a  little  vanity,  innocently  announced  his  age.  The  consequence 
tvas  that,  either  unwilling  to  believe  such  a  work  to  be  a  boy's 
production,  or  imagining  he  had  mentioned  his  age  to  influence 
their  decision,  they  refused  the  premium.  Everybody  exclaimed 
against  the  injustice,  but  one  of  the  results  of  the  dispute  was 
that  his  father,  by  this  time  convinced  that  his  son  was  better 
qualified  to  handle  the  pen  than  the  sword,  excused  him  from 
presenting  himself  at  the  Polytechnic,  and  allowed  him  to  pursue 
his  poetic  studies  in  peace.  He  won  some  prizes  offered  for 
poetry  at  the  floral  games  of  Toulouse,  but  the  appearance  of 
Lamartine's  Meditations  in  1820  stimulated  him  to  more  serious 
and  persevering  effort.  His  first  collection  of  royalist  and  re- 
ligious poems,  entitled  Odes  and  Ballads,  was  given  to  the  world 
in  1822,  and  its  success  was  instantaneous.  Chateaubriand 
saluted  him  as  the  sublime  child,  and  Louis  XVIII.,  touched  by 
the  vigorous  style  in  which  the  young  poet  had  chanted  the 
glories  of  chivalry  and  the  lilies  of  France,  ordered  him  to  be 
paid  a  yearly  pension  of  3000.  francs.  But  Hugo's  next  work,  in 
prose,  Hans  of  Iceland  (1823),  though  captivating  the  majority 
by  its  power  and  strange  originality,  repelled  every  reader  that 
was  indisposed  towards  the  monstrous  and  horrible.  Bttg 
Jargal,  another  prose  tale,  appearing  in  1826,  showed  a  still 
greater  falling  off  in  delicacy  and  taste. 


VICTOR   HUGO.  7\/) 

This  fondness  for  dwelling  on  ghastly  scenes  of  blood  and 
death  and  brutal  cruelty  has  been  the  besetting  sin  of  his  life. 
This  too  is  the  reason  why  readers  of  coarse  tastes,  the  immenr.e 
majority,  whose  palates  must  be  tickled  by  the  hottest  stimulants, 
read  him  with  the  greatest  pleasure.  The  fact  is,  his  irregular 
education,  while  doing  much  to  exalt  his  fancy,  had  done  little 
to  chasten  or  improve  his  taste.  The  dreaming  boy  had  been 
wandering  over  the  splendors  and  horrors  of  Europe,  instead 
of  working  at  school,  and  playing  with  his  companions  ;  a  few 
years  later  his  opening  imagination  took  greater  delight  in 
modern  Spanish,  Italian,  German  and  English  literature,  than 
in  the  master-pieces  of  Greece  and  Rome,  or  in  the  deathless 
productions  of  the  age  of  Louis  XIV.  Exuberant  in  his  genius, 
and  dimly  conscious  of  his  creative  power,  he  chafed  beneath 
rules  of  art  and  dictates  of  criticism,  regarding  them  as  cum- 
bersome trammels,  rather  than  wise  and  safe  guiding-reins. 
Royalty,  too,  had  probably  been  never  more  than  a  sentiment, 
and  his  mother's  death  was  the  first  blow  towards  successfully 
severing  the  link  binding  him  to  the  old  monarchic  and  religious 
school,  which,  about  this  time,  became  known  as  the  Classic,  to 
distinguish  it  from  the  new  school  called  the  Rotnantic,  Of  this 
school,  as  already  stated  (page  224).  the  dramatist  Lemercier  had 
been  really  the  father,  but  Lamartine's  fascinating  Meditations 
having  now  made  it  extremely  popular,  especially  with  young 
France,  a  new  paper,  the  Globe,  was  started  expressly  to  define 
and  support  its  principles.  Its  articles  being  full  of  life,  and 
especially  of  novelty,  the  Globe  was  extensively  read,  its  doc- 
trines proving  especially  ensnaring  to  young  poets,  artists,  and 
dramatists.  Young  Hugo  in  particular,  embraced  the  new  doc- 
trines with  such  enthusiasm  that  he  soon  became  their  most 
vigorous  exponent,  the  great  Panjandrum  indeed  of  the  ncAV 
vTiysteries.  The  chief  principles  of  the  two  schools  seem  to 
be  somewhat  as  follows :  the  Classic  School  holds  that  nature 
should  be  represented  in  poetry,  in  art,  on  the  stage,  etc.,  not 
as  she  really  is,  but  idealized,  and,  whether  in  good  or  in  ill, 
improved  into  what  our  imaginations  readily  tell  us  she  ought 
to  be.     The  Romanticists  claim  that  in  the  representation  of 


300  NOTES, 

nature  our  only  ideal  should  be  the  Tj'ue.  Art,  fettered  by  no 
rule,  by  no  tradition,  by  no  criticism,  should  be  allowed  to  express 
nature  as  it  finds  her,  in  whatever  order  it  may  please,  with 
whatever  ternis  it  may  please.  What  right,  they  ask,  have  we 
to  substitute  our  fleeting  conventionalities  for  the  majesty  of 
reality?  Truth  to  nature  should  be  our  only  standard.  In  our 
pictures  of  nature  why  exclude  the  horrible,  the  grotesque,  or 
even  the  trivial  ?  If  we  admit  only  the  beautiful,  the  perfect, 
the  sublime,  what  pretensions  can  we  make  to  giving  a  repre- 
sentation of  truth  ? 

Something  like  this  at  least  was  said  by  Victor  Hugo  himself 
in  the  preface  to  a  third  volume  of  his  Odes  and  Ballads  in 
1826.  "What  is  really  true  is  always  true.  Thought  is  a 
virginal  and  fertile  soil,  whose  productions  should  be  allowed 
to  grow  spontaneously,  and  even  at  hazard.  Regularity  is  one 
thing ;  order  another.  Regularity  is  merely  human  ;  order  is 
simply  divine.  The  poet's  only  model  should  be,  nature ;  his 
only  guide,  truth;  his  only  books,  Homer  and  the  Bible." 
But  it  was  in  the  preface  to  his  first  tragedy,  Cromwell,  1827, 
that  he  boldly  flung  the  new  banner  to  the  breeze,  and  stoutly 
nailed  it  to  the  mast.  "  In  creation  we  see  the  ugly  existing 
beside  the  beautiful,  the  deformed  beside  the  graceful,  bathos 
beside  pathos,  the  ridiculous  beside  the  subhme,  evil  beside 
good,  shade  beside  light ;  why  then  should  the  artist  endeavor 
to  surpass  God  ?  Is  nature  mutilated  nature  improved  ?  Is 
the  harmonious  to  be  sought  at  the  expense  of  the  complete  ? 
The  time  has  now  come  for  poetry  to  take  a  decided  step,  a 
step,  like  the  earthquake  shock,  destined  to  change  the  face  of 
the  world.-  She  will  show  the  shadow  as  well  as  the  light,  the 
grotesque  as  well  as  the  sublime,  the  body  as  well  as  the  soul, 
the  animal  as  well  as  the  spirit ;  but  she  will  show  them  as 
Nature  shows  them,  mingling  them,- not  confounding  them." 

These  fine  phrases,  however  new,  being  looked  upon  by  many 
as  anything  but  true,  to  give  them  emphasis,  he  published  his 
"Shakespearian"  tragedy  of  Cromwell,  a  tragedy,  however, 
"Shakespearian"  in  nothing  but  some  glaring  defects  and 
crudities  which   the   great   Enghsh   poet   could    have   hardlji 


VICTOR   HUGO.  501 

avoided  in  his  time,  and  which  he  would  in  all  probability  be 
the  last  to  defend.  Instead  of  the  sturdy  life,  the  profound 
philosophy,  the  deep  truth,  and  the  enlivening  variety  of  the 
liard  of  Avon,  we  have  in  Cromwell  a  chronicle  in  rhyming 
dialogue,  unrelieved  by  cunning  art,  poetic  truth,  or  even  the 
slightest  historic  veracity.  Hugo's  acknowledged  failure,  in- 
deed, in  this  his  first  attempt  at  dramatic  composition,  obliged 
him  often  afterwards  to  modify  his  extreme  ideas  a  good  deal, 
though  it  must  be  confessed  that  in  two  respects  he  has  always 
shown  himself  as  unchangeable  as  fate :  he  always  keeps  his 
sublime  beside  his  grotesque,  and  to  his  historical  personages 
he  gives  the  slightest  possible  reality.  For  such  a  profound 
lover  of  truth,  he  shows  an  exceedingly  great  ignorance  of 
history. 

Cromwell,  however,  in  one  sense  could  not  be  exactly  counted, 
a  failure ;  being  a  dramatic  poem,  rather  than  a  play,  its  merits 
could  not  be  tested  in  the  theatre.  Accordingly,  while  one 
party  received  it  with  shouts  of  derision,  another  welcomed  it 
with  enthusiasm  as  the  harbinger  of  the  new  era.  Hugo's 
friends,  Sainte-Beuve,  the  two  Deschamps,  Boulanger  the 
painter,  Alfred  de  Musset.  Nodier,  etc.,  forming  a  club  called 
the  Cenacle,  unanimously  elected  him  president,  and  started,  as 
an  organ  of  their  own,  a  paper,  called  the  Muse  Fran^aise, 
to  advocate  the  new  doctrine,  and  mercilessly  belabor  all 
opponents.  "  The  strongest  article  of  Cenacle  creed,"  as  a  wit 
of  the  day  said,  "  is  the  total  denial  of  any  claim  to  our  respect 
possessed  by  any  one  over  eighteen  years  of  age." 

The  youthful  band,  however,  possessed  genius  enough  not 
only  to  save  it  from  death  by  ridicule,  but  even  to  ensure  it  for 
a  while  an  undoubted  triumph.  Not  to  speak  of  the  others, 
Hugo's  new  poem,  The  Orientals,  published  in  1829,  if  weak 
in  thought  was  perfect  in  versification,  and  extremely  rich  in 
gorgeous  coloring;  and  his  next  novel,  The  Last  Days  of  a  Con- 
demned Man,  if  repulsive  in  the  whole  groundwork,  and  false 
in  its  observations,  to  this  day  excites  our  admiration  as  a 
psychological  study  of  astonishing  vigor.  No  one,  in  fact,  could 
deny  that  the  leader  of  the  Romanticists  was  a  poet  by  organi- 
26 


302  NOTES. 

zation  and  temperament,  but  that  he  could  reflect  calmly,  ob- 
serve truly,  judge  accurately,  or  write  with  a  fine  discrimination, 
was  denied  then  as  vehemently  as  it  is  denied  to-day. 

"Give  them  a  real  play.  President,"  said  the  Cenacle,  "so 
that  they  can  see  what  the  new  school  can  do  in  the  theatre." 
Marion  Delorme  was  the  reply  to  this  demand,  but  the  Censors 
considered  it  decidedly  too  gross  for  representation.  Hernani 
was  then  announced,  but,  though  the  same  objection  could  not 
be  made  to  this  play,  it  was  so  violently  opposed  that  even  the 
French  Academy  went  to  the  King  and  conjured  him,  in  the 
name  of  taste  and  good  sense,  to  forbid  this  new  profanity  of 
the  daring  innovator.  The  reply  of  Charles  X.  is  well  known  : 
"  In  theatre  matters  I  have  a  right  to  nothing  except  my  own 
seat  in  my  own  box  !  "  February  26,  1830,  is  a  memorable  day 
in  the  annals  of  the  French  stage.  Hernani,  a  five  act  drama 
in  verse,  written  in  opposition  to  every  rule  then  known  and 
till  then  religiously  cherished  and  observed,  was  acted  in  the 
Thedire-Fran^ais.  The  house  was  packed,  but  not  with  critics 
or  dispassionate  judges;  every  spectator  was  an  uncompro- 
mising partisan.  Very  little  of  the  play  could  be  properly 
heard.  Shouts,  hisses,  cat-calls,  applauses,  yellings,  uproar, 
tumult,  incessant  during  the  evening,  finally  culminated  in 
violent  recriminations  and  personal  encounters.  The  students, 
artists,  journalists,  and  other  devotees  of  romanticism,  proving 
themselves  possessed  of  better  lungs,  or  of  more  vigorous  mus- 
cle, remained  masters  of  the  field,  and,  having  driven  their  op- 
ponents- out  of  the  theatre,  assembled  in  the  foyer  to  celebrate 
their  victory  by  dancing,  singing,  and  shouting,  "  Vivent  les 
Romantiques  !  Racine  's  smashed  !  "  From  that  night  it  must 
certainly  be  acknowledged  that  drama  has  conquered  tragedy. 

Before  the  enthusiasm  excited  by  Her7tani  had  time  to  cool, 
Hugo's  new  work,  Notre  Dame  de  Paris  (the  Hunchback  of 
Notre  Dame),  took  Europe  by  surprise,  and  extorted  from  his 
fiercest  adversaries  the  acknowledgment  of  incontestable  genius. 
It  is  certainly  a  masterpiece,  one  of  the  most  remarkable  books 
of  the  nineteenth  century.  Quasimodo  may  be  a  monstrous 
chimera,   Claude  a  melodramatic  sensualist,  Gringoire  a  Vol 


VICTOR  HUGO.  303 

tairian  300  years  ahead  of  time ;  in  fact,  most  of  the  other 
characters  —  always  excepting  Esmeralda,  a  really  charming 
creation  —  may  be  nobodies.  Still,  there  is  no  resisting  the 
enchanting  spell  it  throws  over  us  by  its  wondrous  pictures  of 
the  romantic  past,  as  seen  by  the  eyes  of  Victor  Hugo.  As  if 
by  the  wave  of  a  magic  wand,  it  transports  us  into  the  centre 
of  his  Paris  of  the  Middle  Ages,  with  its  gloomy  streets,  its 
roistering  students,  its  quaint  but  poetic  life,  its  reckless  and 
excitable  population,  its  grotesque  houses,  its  picturesque  towers, 
its  frowning  palaces,  and  above  all  its  grand  and  glorious  old 
Cathedral !  Not  even  Sir  Walter  Scott  ever  gave  us  a  work  of 
such  amplitude,  movement,  and  epic  power.  The  bird's-eye 
view  of  Paris  alone,  whether  strictly  correct  or  not,  most  probably 
not,  shows  vast  and  enthusiastic  research. 

A  volume  of  his  poems,  too,  published  this  year  (1831), 
Autumn  Leaves,  though  confused  in  ideas,  and  diffuse  in  style, 
and  already  showing  a  tendency  to  introduce  the  poet's  per- 
sonality too  often  to  the  reader's  notice,  is  probably  his  best 
poetic  work,  the  thoughts,  fresh,  vigorous  and  lofty,  being  ex- 
pressed with  great  sweetness  and  harmony.  As  to  his  plays, 
the  Romanticists  do  not  seem  to  have  improved  him  much  by 
"smashing  Racine."  Even  the  government  of  July,  that  had 
been  weak  enough  to  wink  at  Marioft  Delonne,  plucked  up 
courage  enough  to  forbid  the  hideous  Le  Rot  s' amuse,  some- 
what known  to  English  play-goers  as  the  Fool's  Revenge.  His 
succeeding  plays,  Lucrecia  Borgia^  Mary  Ttidor,  and  Angela, 
are  noisy  melodramas,  full  of  poniards,  poison  bowls,  trap- 
doors, and  back-staircases.  By  degrees  it  seems  at  last  to  have 
dawned  on  Hugo's  own  mind  that  the  ability  to  write  very  fine 
lyrical  passages  is  only  a  slender  qualification  towards  making 
a  successful  dramatic  author.  Or  perhaps  it  was  Lamartine's 
laurels  that  would  not  allow  him  to  sleep.  Anyway,  it  is  certain 
that,  finding  Ruy  Bias  (1838)  and  the  Burgraves  (1843)  very 
unceremoniously  handled  by  the  critics,  the  disgusted  poet  re- 
nounced dramatic  composition  for  ever,  and  turned  his  attention 
to  politics. 

in  1 841  he  was  forced  on  the  French  Academy,  the  majority 


304  NOTES. 

being  by  no  means  his  admirers,  but  in  his  reception  address 
he  astonislied  everybody  by  saying  very  little  on  literature,  but 
A  great  deal  on  the  art  of  ruling  the  country.  The  Rhine, 
published  next  year,  betrayed  the  same  dream  of  triumphs  in 
the  tribune,  the  same  aspiration  after  ministerial  honors,  the 
romantic  river  proving  anything  but  a  fertile  subject  for  poetry, 
enthusiasm,  picturesque  description,  or  glowing  historical  as- 
sociation. In  1845,  when  called  to  the  Chamber  of  Peers  with 
the  title  of  Count,  he  did  not  hesitate  to  hail  Louis  Philippe  as 
"  the  most  eminent  of  European  kings,  the  crowned  Sage  who 
scattered  from  the  summit  of  his  throne  the  words  of  universal 
peace."  In  1847,  however,  he  sails  on  quite  another  tack,  for 
we  find  him  threateningly  advising  the  government  "  to  occupy 
itself  with  the  masses  where  there  is  so  much  courage,  so  much 
intelligence,  so  much  patriotism,  so  much  utility,  but  at  the  same 
time  so  much  inflammability  that  at  any  moment  we  may  expect 
a  deadly  explosion." 

The  explosion  coming  in  1848,  and  Hugo  quickly  giving  his 
adhesion  to  what  he  called  "  that  majestic  social  form,  the  re- 
public, which  our  fathers  have  seen  grand  and  terrible  in  the 
past,  and  which  we  wish  to  see  grand  and  beneficent  in  the 
future,"  he  was  elected  to  the  Constituent  Assembly  by  sixty 
thousand  votes.  Here,  though  generally  voting  with  the  con- 
servative party,  he  soon  began  to  be  suspected  of  socialistic 
views,  and  in  a  paper  of  his  own,  called  the  Evenefnent,  he 
showed  himself  extremely  bitter  towards  General  Cavaignac,  at 
that  time  the  head  of  the  executive  authority.  He  stoutly' advo- 
cated, however,  the  establishment  of  two  Chambers  instead  of 
one,  and  refused  to  cast  his  vote  for  a  Constitution  containing 
such  a  germ  of  calamity.  He  received  the  election  of  Louis 
Napoleon  to  the  presidency  with  the  most  marked  favor,  and  in 
1849  was  elected  to  the  Legislative  Assembly,  tenth  on  the  list 
of  the  twenty-eight  Deputies  of  Paris.  In  all  probability  he  was 
at  this  time  expecting  some  ministerial  position,  which,  however, 
the  Louis  Napoleon  Cabinet  did  not  offer  him.  In  vain  did  his 
paper  endeavor  to  explode  "the  vulgar  and  absurd  prejudice 
that  a  poet  must  be  feeble  and  incompetent  in  the  practical 


VICTOR  HUGO.  305 

affairs  of  life."  In  vain  did  he  parade  his  sparkling  definition 
of  the  poet  statesman,  combining  at  once  "hand  and  head, 
heart  and  thought,  sword  and  lamp,  who  is  both  gentle  and 
strong,  gentle  because  he  is  strong,  strong  because  he  is  gentle, 
conqueror  and  legislator,  king  and  prophet,  lyre  and  sword, 
apostle  and  messiah." 

No  portfoUo  making  its  appearance,  M.  Victor  Hugo  began 
to  see  some  logic  in  Emile  de  Girardin's  extreme  views,  and  in 
fact  was  soon  drifting  towards  the  most  advanced  democracy. 
Pretending  to  believe  it  to  be  in  the  power  of  the  government 
to  destroy  indigence,  he  asked  the  Assembly  to  pass  laws  for 
the  suppression  of  misery.  He  warmly  joined  Ledru  RoUin  in 
his  attacks  on  the  Roman  Expedition,  but  he  prudently  took  no 
part  in  the  insurrection  which  drove  that  demagogue  to  Eng- 
land. He  spoke  so  disrespectfully  of  the  Pope  that  he  drew  on 
himself  a  severe  rebuke  from  Montalembert.  His  eloquence  at 
last  made  him  the  recognized  organ  of  the  Mountain.  In  fact, 
the  extremely  violent  and  imprudent  measures  that  he  advocated 
in  the  Assembly  so  alarmed  the  country  as  to  render  a  Dictator 
necessary,  and  a  Coup  d'etat  possible.  In  his  famous  speech 
opposing  a  revision  of  the  Constitution,  a  measure  of  such  ex- 
treme need  and  importance  that  80  out  of  the  86  departments 
of  France  expressly  demanded  it,  he  uttered  the  well-known 
words:  "What!  because  after  a  thousand  years  a  man  came 
and  picked  up  the  sword  and  the  sceptre  of  Charlemagne  — 
Because  this  man,  whose  name  is  synonymous  with  Rivoli,  with 
Jena,  with  Friedland,  dropped  in  his  turn  this  sword  and  this 
sceptre,  must  you  pick  them  up  ?  Pick  them  up,  as  he  picked 
them  up  after  Charlemagne  ?  Pick  them  up  with  your  puny 
hands  ?  What !  after  Augustus,  Augustulus  ?  What !  Because 
we  have  had  a  Napoleon  the  Great,  must  we  have  a  Napoleon 
the  Little!  " 

Rhetoric  of  this  kind  not  preventing  the  Coup  d'etat,  Victor 
Hugo's  name  was  on  the  first  list  of  those  banished  from  France 
as  enemies  of  the  new  government.  Furious  at  such  treatment, 
he  took  refuge  in  the  island  of  Jersey,  where,  safe  under  the 
protection  of  England,  he  devoted  the  early  years  of  his  exile 
26*  U 


306  NOTES. 

to  firing  broadsides  of  hot  shot  at  the  enemy,  of  which  Napoleon 
the  Little  in  prose  and  Castigations  in  poetry  are  the  best  known. 
Cofttemplations  (1856),  written  in  a  calmer  mood,  have  all  the 
defects  of  his  earlier  poetry,  chaotic  thoughts  and  redundant 
style,  with  but  little  compensating  improvement.  In  1859  ^e 
published  his  Legend  of  the  Ages,  a  vast  collection  of  poems, 
announced,  however,  as  only  a  fragment  of  a  work  still  vaster, 
a  Trilogy,  of  which  the  other  two  parts  were  to  be  Satan's  End, 
and  God.  In  this  year  he  haughtily  refused  to  accept  the  am- 
nesty offered  to  all  political  exiles  in  consequence  of  the  French 
successes  in  the  Italian  war.  In  1869  he  refused  with  still  greater 
pride  the  second  amnesty,  alleging  as  a  reason  the  "  barrier  of 
honor  "  that  his  own  line  had  placed  in  his  way : 

"  If  there  remains  but  one,  that  one  shall  be  I." 

His  real  reason,  however,  does  not  seem  to  be  anything  else 
but  ruffled  pride  which  never  forgives,  and  a  wish  to  remain  in 
safe  quarters  whence  he  might  fling  whatever  missiles  he  pleased 
without  the  least  danger  of  being  called  to  an  account. 

In  1862  2i^'^t2x^di  Les  Miserables,  published  simultaneously  in 
six  different  languages,  and  so  well  known  that  nothing  more 
need  be  said  of  it  here  than  that  its  profits  must  have  been 
enormous.  His  Songs  of  the  Streets  and  Woods  (1865)  were 
treated  very  severely  by. the  critics  as  a  vast  agglomeration 
where  trifles,  thoughts,  truths,  grotesque  fancies,  fliing  together 
at  random,  seem  no  more  entitled  to  be  called  poetry  than  the 
incoherent  rhapsodies  of  a  pianist  trying  his  instrument  are  to 
be  called  music.  The  Toilers  of  the  Sea  (1866)  did  not  give 
much  pleasure,  and  the  Laughing  Man  (1869),  in  spite  of  book- 
selling dodges,  is  said  to  have  ruined  the  publisher,  the  author 
seeming  to  possess  all  Voltaire's  shrewdness  in  making  bar- 
gains. 

Sedan  brought  him  back  to  Paris,  where  he  immediately  pre- 
sented the  citizens  with  two  cannons  named  Victor  Hugo  and 
Castigation,  and  wrote  an  address  to  the  Germans,  calling  on 
them  to  start  a  republic  at  once  and  help  their  French  brethren. 
In  1 87 1  he  came  out  second  in  the  list  of  the  43  Deputies  of  the 


VICTOR  HUGO.  ,        307 

Seine,  but,  finding  his  speech  against  the  treaty  listened  to  very 
impatiently  at  Bordeaux,  he  resigned  in  disgust  and  retired  to 
Brussels.  Here,  however,  ofifering  an  asylum  to  some  fugitive 
Communists,  his  house  was  mobbed  in  spite  of  the  police,  and 
himself  obliged  to  quit  Belgium.  In  1872  he  published  the 
Annee  Terrible,  his  impressions  of  the  Prussian  War.  His 
powerful  Ninety-three,  published  five  years  ago,  and  appearing 
simultaneously  in  ten  languages,  is  still  fresh  in  the  minds  of 
most  of  our  readers.  Elected  to  the  Senate  in  1876,  for  six 
years,  he  took  his  place  at  the  extreme  Left,  and  his  first  prop- 
osition was  complete  amnesty  for  the  Commune.  In  1877  he 
published  the  Art  of  being  a  Grandfather,  and  the  History  of  a 
Crime ;  his  last  work  (1878)  is  a  rhapsodical  poem  entitled  The 
Pope.  An  excellent  designer,  he  has  furnished  many  illustra- 
tions, among  others,  for  the  new  and  splendid  editions  oi  Ninety- 
three,  and  Notre  Dame  of  Paris. 

As  a  genius  gifted  with  marvellous  imagination  and  extraor- 
dinary power  of  glowing  expression,  Victor  Hugo  is  possibly 
one  of  the  greatest  men  the  fertile  soil  of  France  has  ever  pro- 
duced. Still,  we  can  pronounce  him  to  be  little  better  than  a 
failure.  With  all  his  splendid  creative  power  he  has  left  us 
nothing  really  great  or  good,  nothing  to  elevate  our  thoughts  or 
soothe  our  hearts.  He  seems  to  be  deficient  in  the  stamina 
necessary  for  a  great  character.  Beginning  life  as  a  Royalist 
and  Classicist,  a  little  of  the  world's  incense  soon  turns  him 
Romanticist  and  Democrat ;  on  through  the  diapason  he  passes, 
July  Monarchist,  Napoleonist,  Republican,  Socialist,  and,  at 
present,  he  has  but  to  blame  himself  if  the  world  thinks  him  a 
Communist.  All  through,  however,  he  remains  the  same  proud, 
conceited,  self-absorbed  Vict">r  Hugo.  When  that  great  man  is 
aggrieved,  take  care  !  He  scolds  like  a  beldame,  and  is  as  im- 
placable in  his  sulk  as  an  over-petted  school-boy.  His  political 
pamphlets  are  sorry  reading,  his  genius  seeming  to  evaporate 
in  his  anger.  The  History  of  a  Crime  is  no  pamphlet,  but  a 
highly  elaborated  romance.  Even  his  sympathy  for  the  poor 
and  suffering  has  not  the  true  ring  —  as  we  can  easily  judge  for 
ourselves.     Instead  of  loving  his  poor  and  desiring  to  relieve 


308  NOTES. 

them,  we  feel  ourselves  too  often  hating  somebody  or  something, 
probably  the  author  himself  and  his  antithesis.  It  is  perhaps 
to  this  mania  for  antithesis  that  much  of  his  faults  are  to  be 
attributed.  Though  he  hates  and  denounces  regularity,  an- 
tithesis makes  him  as  regular  as  the  puffs  of  a  high-pressure 
engine.  To  borrow  his  style :  one-half  of  his  sentences  is 
always  enough  to  read ;  contradict  it  and  you  have  the  other. 
His  influence  on  literature  has  been  profound  and  lasting,  but 
hardly  for  its  advantage.  His  disciples,  however  far  beneath 
him  in  the  wonderful  originality  and  vast  sweep  of  his  fancy, 
find  it  an  easy  matter  to  follow  him  in  his  habitual  disregard 
of  the  beautiful,  his  general  negation  of  the  grand,  and  in  his 
morbid  passion  for  delineating  the  cruel,  the  repulsive,  the 
monstrous  and  the  terrible. 

Note  64  — REGNARD  — page  109. 

Jean  Francais  Regnard  (165 5-1 709),  comic  dramatist  of 
the  first  rank,  Moliere  alone  being  his  superior,  son  of  a  wealthy 
Parisian  merchant,  was  a  great  traveller  in  his  youth,  and  en- 
countered many  strange  adventures.  Captured  by  pirates  and 
sold  in  Constantinople  as  a  slave,  he  so  gained  on  the  good 
graces  of  his  master  that  he  was  set  free  for  a  comparatively 
light  ransom.  Starting  off  again,  this  time  in  a  different  direc- 
tion, he  visited  Denmark,  Russia,  Sweden  and  even  Lapland, 
reaching  the  Arctic  Ocean,  on  a  mountain  in  sight  of  which  he 
engraved  the  famous  Latin  lines  : 

Gallia  nos  genuit ;  vidit  nos  Africa;  Gangem 
Ilausimus :  Europamque  oculis  lustravimus  omnem; 
Casibus  et  variis  acti  terraque  marique. 
Hie  tandem  stetimus  nobis  ubi  defuit  orbis. 

(France  gave  us  birth ;  Africa  caught  sight  of  us  ;  of  the  Ganges  have  we  drunk ; 
all  Europe  have  our  eyes  surveyed;  many  vicissitudes  have  we  experienced  by  land 
and  sea;  here,  where  the  earth  itself  fails  us,  have  we  at  last  come  to  a  halt.) 

In  1683  he  settled  at  Paris;  possessing  an  ample  fortune,  he 
led  a  life  of  pleasure,  one  of  his  chief  amusements  being  lite- 
rary composition,  for  which  his  joyous  nature,  experience  in 
life,  and  a  very  ready  pen  eminently  fitted  him.     His  plays, 


RUBENS.  309 

written  in  verse,  were  acted  at  the  Theatre- Francais  with  re- 
markable success,  their  principal  characteristics  being  great 
liveliness,  naturalness,  farcical  incident,  rather  than  profound 
portraiture  of  character.  His  Z<?  Joueur  (the  Gambler)  is  still 
one  of  the  masterpieces  of  the  Frangais.  After  an  epicurean 
life  of  54  he  died  suddenly,  some  say  by  his  own  hand  in  a  fit 
of  spleen,  but  most  probably  of  an  indigestion  brought  on  by 
an  excess  at  the  table.  Like  Moliere,  Regnard  was  never  ad- 
mitted into  the  French  Acadeny,  but  the  members  of  that  body, 
by  way  of  reparation,  offered,  in  1857,  a  prize  for  the  best  eulogy 
on  his  memory. 

Note  65  —  RUBENS  —  page  109. 

Peter  Paul  Rubens  (i  577-1640),  the  most  celebrated  artist 
of  the  Flemish  school,  and  one  of  the  few  painters  that  can  be 
truly  called  great,  was  born  on  Saints  Peter  and  Paul's  day,  in 
Siegen,  Westphalia,  where  his  father,  an  Antwerp  magistrate, 
had  sought  shelter  with  his  family  during  the  religious  and 
political  troubles  occasioned  by  the  rising  of  William  of  Orange 
against  the  Spanish  domination.  These  troubles  of  his  infancy, 
however,  seem  to  be  the  only  troubles  this  most  favored  of 
mortals  ever  experienced  during  his  life,  and  even  these  were 
considerably  diminished  by  a  childhood  passed  in  Cologne,  of 
which  city  he  always  cherished  an  affectionate  recollection.  At 
the  period  of  his  father's  death  in  1587,  Spanish  authority  being 
reestablished  at  Antwerp,  his  mother  returned  to  her  native  city. 
In  this  famous  school  of  religious  and  classic  learning  the  boy, 
resuming  his  education,  prosecuted  his  studies  with  such  suc- 
cess that  at  the  age  of  sixteen  he  could  speak  and  write  Latin 
with  almost  as  much  facility  as  his  native  language.  Life 
opened  pleasantly  before  the  brilliant  youth ;  but  the  post  of 
page,  procured  for  him  by  his  mother's  influence  in  one  of  the 
noblest  households  of  Flanders,  proving  distasteful  to  him  from 
its  monotony,  he  obtained  with  some  difficulty  her  permission  to 
devote  himself  to  painting.  His  first  instructor.  Van  Ort,  a  great 
colorist,  proving  otherwise  objectionable,  he  left  him  for  Van 
Veen,  the  court  painter  at  Brussels,  the  "  Flemish  Raphael/ 


310  NOTES. 

an  excellent  artist,  and  the  real  master  of  such  a  distinguished 
pupil.  His  progress  in  four  years  was  so  remarkable  as  to 
attract  the  attention  of  the  Viceroys  of  the  Low  Countries,  Albert 
of  Austria,  and  his  wife  Isabella,  daughter  of  the  King  of  Spain, 
who  strongly  recommended  him  to  visit  Italy,  and  supplied  him 
with  suitable  letters  of  introduction.  He  was  now  twenty-three, 
and  his  progress,  until  his  return  eight  years  afterwards,  was 
nothing  but  a  series  of  brilliant  successes. 

At  Venice,  to  which  city  of  Titian,  Tintoretto  and  Paul  Vero- 
nese, his  innate  love  of  color  first  irresistibly  attracted  him,  he 
distinguished  himself  so  much  by  the  excellence  of  his  work 
that  Gonzaga,  Duke  of  Mantua,  not  only  gave  him  plenty  of 
orders,  but  even  put  him  at  the  head  of  a  commission  employed 
to  convey  to  the  King  of  Spain  some  magnificent  Neapolitan 
horses,  and  other  costly  presents.  On  his  return  he  went  to 
Rome,  where  he  soon  made  himself  known  and  appreciated ; 
at  Florence,  he  received  a  highly  honorable  reception  from  the 
Grand  Duke,  Ferdinand  dei  Medici ;  a  desire  to  see  the  works 
of  the  Caracci  brought  him  to  Bologna,  but  he  soon  hurried 
back  to  Venice  to  complete  his  studies  of  the  great  colorists. 
These  finished,  he  returned  to  Rome,  the  great  school  for  Form, 
and  gra7ideur  of  Design,  where  he  remained  several  years,  study- 
ing as  carefully  as  the  numerous  orders  received  from  Pope, 
cardinals,  princes,  abbots,  and  churches  would  permit  him ;  at 
Milan  he  executed  a  drawing  by  which  Lionardo  da  Vinci's 
Last  Supper  has  been  best  known  as  an  engraving.  At  Genoa 
he  painted  two  pictures,  still  to  be  seen  in  the  Cathedral,  and 
of  which  the  Genoese  are  so  proud  that  they  consider  them  to 
be  his  masterpieces. 

At  the  news  of  his  mother's  serious  illness,  he  hastily  started 
for  Antwerp,  but,  hearing  of  her  death  before  his  arrival,  he  re- 
tired to  St.  Michael's  abbey,  near  Brussels,  where  he  endeavored 
to  solace  his  grief  by  designing  her  tomb.  His  flattering  recep- 
tion at  Brussels,  especially  at  the  Viceregal  Court,  induced  him 
to  abandon  his  notion  of  returning  to  Italy,  but,  with  his  noble 
patrons'  permission,  Antwerp  became  his  favorite  residence. 
Here  he  built  a  stately  house  in  the  Italian  style,  carefully  pre- 


RUBENS.  311 

served  to  this  day,  married  very  happily,  and  the  Viceroys  did 
him  the  honor  of  holding  his  first-born  over  the  baptismal  font. 
Antwerp  soon  began  to  reap  the  fruits  of  his  genius,  most  of 
the  churches,  convents,  monasteries,  abbeys,  etc.,  demanding 
altar-pieces,  many  of  which  are  still  carefully  preserved  in  that 
old  Catholic  city.  To  this  period  of  his  life  belong  his  great 
masterpieces,  the  Descent  from  the  Cross,  the  Elevation  on  the 
Cross,  and  the  Assumption  of  the  Blessed  Virgi7t.  The  first  is 
said  to  have  had  its  origin  somewhat  curiously. 

When  his  house  was  nearly  completed,  it  was  found  that 
through  some  mistake  a  good  deal  of  it  had  been  built  upon  a 
lot  belonging  to  a  guild  of  the  city,  called  the  Confraternity  of 
Gunsmiths.  Unwilling  to  give  up  their  rights,  but  loath  to  quar- 
rel with  the  great  artist,  the  Confraternity  consented  to  waive 
their  claim  in  case  he  painted  for  their  chapel  in  the  Cathedral 
a  picture  in  honor  of  Saint  Christopher,  their  patron.  The 
word  Christopher  meaning  a  Christ-bearer,  the  idea  pleased  the 
painter,  but  he  determined  to  improve  on  it.  The  Descent frotn 
the  Cross,  that  masterpiece  of  painting,  was  the  result.  It  is 
covered  by  shutters  which,  when  opened,  also  bear  pictures. 
'  The  shutter  to  the  right  represents  the  Blessed  Virgin,  the  first 
Christ-bearer ;  the  shutter  on  the  left  represents  St.  Simeon  in 
the  temple  holding  the  Blessed  Infant  in  his  arms,  the  second 
Christ-bearer ;  the  picture  itself  in  the  centre,  represents  the 
Cross  St.  Johft,  the  Maries,  and  Joseph  of  Arimathea,  all 
equally  Christ-bearers.  Critics  are  never  tired  of  praising  this 
wonderful  picture.  One  says:  its  unity  is  perfect,  everything 
conspiring  to  draw  the  eye  to  the  central  figure,  the  body  of 
Our  Lord, —  a  wonderful  body,  adorable,  heavy,  flaccid,  dead, 
but  still  perfectly  preserving  the  dignity  of  divine  majesty.  Sir 
Joshua  Reynolds  says:  "the  Christ  is  the  finest  figure  ever 
created ;  it  is  most  correctly  drawn,  though  in  an  attitude  of  the 
utmost  difficulty  to  execute.  The  hanging  of  the  head  on  the 
shoulder  and  the  falling  of  the  body  all  on  one  side  give  such 
an  appearance  of  the  heaviness  of  death  that  nothing  can  ex- 
ceed it.  The  light  irradiating  the  whole  picture  depends  altO' 
gether  on  the  daring  venture  of  white  upon  white,  and  on  the 


312  NOTES. 

contrast  presented  between  tlie  dazzling  shroud  and  the  ivory 
pallor  of  the  divine  body,  which  still  stands  out  in  aston.shing 
relief  from  a  ground  of  almost  exactly  the  same  color. ' '  Strange 
to  say,  at  first  the  Gunsmiths  did  not  see  much  merit  in  these 
pictures,  and  looked  in  vain  for  their  patron  ;  but  the  good- 
natured  artist  removed  every  objection  by  painting  on  the  out- 
side of  the  great  shutters  a  colossal  St.  Christopher  carrying  the 
Divine  Infant. 

His  fame  by  this  time  had  become  so  great  that  he  was  invited, 
in  1620,  to  Paris  by  the  Queen  Dowager,  Marie  de  Medicis,  to 
adorn  her  palace  of  the  Luxembourg,  and  was  received  with 
the  greatest  honor.  He  sketched  the  outlines,  and  made  the 
measurements  in  Paris,  but  took  them  for  execution  to  Antwerp, 
where,  of  course,  with  the  assistance  of  his  numerous  pupils,  in 
twenty  months,  he  painted  the  famous  twenty-four  pictures  repre- 
senting the  life  of  Marie  de  Medicis  that  are  found  now  in  the 
Louvre.  But  painting  was  not  to  be  the  only  way  by  which  this 
great  man  distinguished  himself.  At  Paris  he  met  the  Duke  of 
Buckingham,  who,  well  aware  of  his  influence  with  his  patron, 
the  Archduchess  Isabella,  thought  proper  to  acquaint  Rubens 
with  the  strong  desire  of  his  master,  Charles  L,  to  see  the  two 
countries,  England  and  Spain,  come  to  a  good  understanding. 
Conversing  on  this  subject  with  the  princess  on  his  return  to 
Brussels,  Rubens  so  impressed  Isabella  with  his  great  tact  and 
good  sense  that  she  sent  him  to  Madrid,  a  kind  of  unofficial 
ambassador,  to  lay  the  matter  before  her  nephew,  Philip  IV., 
King  of  Spain.  Here  he  painted  several  very  fine  pictures, 
still  to  be  seen  in  the  Museo,  and  soon  became  a  great  favorite, 
for,  though  the  Spaniards  did  not  like  his  stout,  brawny,  Flemish, 
and  often  ungraceful  forms,  they  pardoned  much  to  such  rich 
harmonious  color  that  shone  like  a  light  from  within  ;  in  fact 
they  could  hardly  help  being  pleased  with  the  bold,  joyous, 
animal  nature  of  his  pictures,  the  riotous  impulses,  and  the 
energetic  action  of  his  exuberant  flesh  and  blood.  After  a 
sojourn  of  18  months  in  Madrid,  he  received  private  orders 
from  Philip  IV.  to  proceed  to  London,  where,  while  still  acting 
as  artist,  and  in  that  capacity  painting  the  ceiling  at  Whitehall, 


RUBENS.  313 

and  War  and  Peace  at  present  in  the  National  Gallery,  he 
actually  succeeded  in  concluding  a  mutually  beneficial  treaty 
between  Spain  and  England.  Charles  I.  testified  his  extreme 
satisfaction  by  conferring  on  Rubens  the  order  of  knighthood, 
and  loading  him  with  magnificent  presents. 

As  may  be  imagined,  his  fame  as  a  diplomatist  redoubled  his 
orders,  which  could  not  now  be  executed  without  the  aid  of 
his  numerous  pupils,  many  of  whom,  in  particular  Van  Dyke, 
Jordaens,  and  Teniers,  afterwards  rose  to  great  distinction.  In 
1 63 1,  five  years  after  the  death  of  his  first  wife,  he  married  again, 
this  time  a  young  lady  only  seventeen,  whose  face  is  so  well 
known  wherever  his  later  pictures  are  to  be  found.  In  1633  his 
old  friend  and  patroness,  the  Archduchess  Isabella,  died,  and 
Philip  IV.  sent  his  only  brother,  Don  Ferdinand,  to  govern  the 
Low  Countries.  Victorious  over  his  enemies,  the  Swedes,  at 
Nordlingen,  the  young  prince  entered  the  Low  Countries  in 
triumph,  and  the  citizens  of  Antwerp,  inviting  him  to  visit  their 
city,  commissioned  Rubens  to  make  all  the  necessary  prepara- 
tions to  ensure  him  a  joyous  and  magnificent  reception.  Never 
was  artist  more  happy,  more  industrious,  or  more  successful. 
The  splendor  of  the  preparations  exceeded  all  description,  but 
unfortunately  Rubens  himself,  the  soul  of  the  entertainments, 
was  not  able  to  be  present  himself,  a  kind  of  gout  having 
attacked  him  in  the  hands,  from  which  he  occasionally  suf- 
fered exceedingly  great  pain.  But  Ferdinand,  during  his 
stay  at  Antwerp,  did  not  forget  to  call  frequently  on  the 
illustrious  artist  and  enjoy  several  hours  of  his  pleasant  con- 
versation. 

He  was  now  58  years  of  age,  and  in  the  full  enjoyment  of  all 
his  intellectual  faculties,  but  from  this  time  until  the  day  of  his 
death,  five  years  later,  he  could  paint  but  little,  his  fingers  being 
unable  to  hold  the  brush.  He  was  buried  in  his  own  Chapel  in 
the  Church  of  Saint  James,  where  this  mausoleum,  erected  by 
his  widow,  is  still  to  be  seen,  besides  the  Holy  Family,  a  famous 
picture  painted  fifteen  years  before  his  death,  into  which  the 
artist  has  introduced  himself,  his  parents,  his  wives,  his  children, 
and  friends,  including  the  celebrated  Lady  in  the  Straw  Hat, 
27 


314  NOTES. 

another  copy  of  which,  the  only  one  in  the  world,  is  to  be  seen 
in  the  National  Gallery,  London. 

Magnificent,  generous,  benevolent,  incapable  of  envy,  Ru- 
bens was  a  great  favorite  in  every  country,  and  with  all  ranks, 
"a  frank,  honest,  and  bountiful  man."  "The  best  workman 
with  his  tools  that  ever  exercised  a  pencil,"  his  consummate 
excellence  lay  in  the  brilliancy  of  his  coloring,  and  the  rapidity 
of  his  execution.  Restless  in  his  activity,  he  could  not  bear  to 
lose  a  mornent,  and  when  not  painting  he  was  reading  Latin, 
French,  Italian,  or  English.  Even  when  hard  at  work,  he 
generally  had  somebody  to  read  aloud  for  him  passages  from 
Homer,  or  Plutarch,  or  Livy,  or  Virgil,  having  some  connection 
with  the  subject  in  hand.  Simple  -and  temperate  in  his  habits, 
he  rose  early,  and  went  every  morning  to  church  to  hear  mass. 
In  the  afternoon  his  usual  distraction  was  to  take  a  dash  out 
into  the  country  on  one  of  his  magnificent  horses,  of  which 
animals,  as  well  as  of  dogs,  he  was  always  passionately  fond. 

His  facility  was  prodigious,  remarkable  pictures  bearing  his 
name,  and  acknowledged  to  be  his,  amounting  to  upwards  of 
1 500.  History  was  perhaps  his  predilection,  but  he  was  at  home 
in  everything  —  portraiture,  landscape,  fruits,  flowers,  and  ani- 
mals, all  springing  up  with  equal  readiness  under  his  versatile 
pencil.  He  had  not  the  enchanting  grace  that  we  find  every- 
where characterizing  the  works  of  Raphael,  but  he  possessed,  in 
a  supreme  degree,  the  fire  that  manifests  itself  by  astonishing 
us  and  moving  us.  He  preferred  splendor  to  beauty,  often 
sacrificed  correctness  of  drawing  to  the  magic  of  color,  and 
seldom  rose  to  the  ideal;  but  his  merit  is  incontestable  in  gran- 
diose effects,  in  enthusiastic  activity,  astounding  energy,  and 
the  endless  variety  of  his  composition.  In  a  word,  his  merits 
immeasurably  surpass  his  defects,  and,  if  Raphael  and  Michael 
Angelo  are  to  be  placed  in  the  first  rank  of  painters,  Rubens 
comes  nearest  to  them  in  the  second. 

Note  66— FLORIAN  —page  109. 

J.  P.  Claris  de  Florian  (1755-1794),  poet,  dramatist,  and 
fabulist,  spent  his  early  years  at  his  grandfather's  residence,  the 


FLORIAN.  315 

Chateau  de  Florian,  Languedoc,  in  the  loveliest  regions  of 
southern  France.  While  yet  quite  young  he  was  often  taken  to 
visit  his  grand-uncle,  Voltaire,  at  Ferney,  whc^liked  the  child's 
lively  rattle,  and  nicknamed  him  Floriannet,  His  paternal 
estates  being  nearly  all  squandered  through  extravagance,  at 
1 5  he  entered  the  household  of  the  Duke  de  Penthievre  as  page, 
and  by  his  sprightliness,  sensibility  and  good  nature  secured  the 
lifelong  friendship  of  his  illustrious  patron.  At  first  adopting 
his  father's  profession,  that  of  arms,  young  Florian  passed  some 
time  at  a  military  school,  and  commanded  a  company  in  the 
Penthievre  dragoons,  but,  soon  discovering  the  inconveniences 
of  a  military  life  for  which  he  had  no  particular  capacity,  he 
resigned  his  commission  and  gratefully  accepted  the  appoint- 
ment of  gentleman  in  ordinary  to  the  Duke.  This  post  he  re- 
tained as  long  as  he  lived,  his  principal  duty  being  to  distribute 
the  generous  alms  of  his  charitable  patron,  either  in  Paris  or 
at  his  country-houses  at  Anet  or  Sceaux.  This  congenial  life 
allowed  him  plenty  of  time  to  devote  to  literature,  a  strong 
propensity  to  which  he  had  acquired  from  his  mother,  a  lady  of 
Castilian  lineage  and  well  versed  in  Spanish  prose  and  poetry. 
His  first  publications,  however,  showed  little  more  than 
delicacy  of  taste  and  fineness  of  touch.  But  his  Galatea  (1783), 
though  mostly  imitated  from  Cervantes,  excited  attention  by  its 
lively  coloring,  and  the  graceful  songs  by  which  it  was  inter- 
spersed. Estella  (1788),  another  pastoral,  altogether  his  own, 
though  purer,  fresher,  and  more  elegant,  was  less  successful ;  it 
was  considered  deficient  in  vigor ;  as  a  wit  of  the  time  said : 
the  sheep,  shepherds,  and  shepherdesses  were  all  charming, 
bid  nothing  could  C07npensate  for  the  absence  of  the  wolf  His 
first  prose  work,  Numa  Pompilius,  though  still  a  great  favorite, 
IS  little  more  than  an  imitation  of  Fenelon's  immortal  Te- 
femachus,  Numa  being  the  composition  of  an  elegant  young 
gentleman  of  the  frivolous  eighteenth  century,  and  Telemachus 
reading  like  the  translation  of  an  Athenian  of  the  days  of 
Pericles.  Of  his  numerous  Tales  and  Stories  also,  it  must  be 
sufficient  to  say  that,  though  we  occasionally  meet  lines  witty, 
forcible,  and  even  elegant,  Florian's  muse  is  more  remarkable 


3l6  NOTES. 

for  easy  graceful  movement  than  for  vigorous  or  .prolonged 
flight.  Still  his  Comedies  (i 779-1 782),  by  their  sensibility  and 
naturalness,  ob^ined  a  great  success  at  the  Theatre  Italien, 
The  Two  Notes,  in  particular,  being  still  often  played  on  the 
French  stage.  Crowned  twice  by  the  French  Academy,  he  was 
admitted  a  member  of  that  body  in  1788. 

In  1 79 1  his  Gonsalvo  of  Cordova,  another  prose  poem,  ap- 
peared, preceded  by  a  Notice  of  the  Moors  in  Spain,  so  remark- 
ably well  done  that  many  have  considered  Florian  capable  of 
becoming  quite  a  distinguished  historian.  His  Fables,  however, 
written  to  amuse  the  habitual  melancholy  of  his  patron,  are  by 
far  the  best  of  his  works,  and  are  still  quite  popular.  They  are 
written  with  much  ease,  tact,  naturalness,  and  finish ;  and  so 
far,  they  have  secured  Florian  the  second  place  in  a  style  of 
literature  of  which  La  Fontaine  easily  holds  the  first. 

So  far  everything  had  gone  well  with  our  author.  He  had 
been  gradually  growing  in  general  estimation,  his  pen  had 
enabled  him  to  pay  off  much  of  the  debt  encumbering  his 
estate,  his  patron  had  been  the  kindest  of  men  ;  when  suddenly 
the  crash  of  the  Revolution  burst  over  his  devoted  head.  It 
murdered  the  Princess  de  Lamballe,  his  patron's  daughter-in- 
law  ;  it  cut  short  the  old  Duke's  days ;  it  flung  the  poet  as  a 
nobleman  into  prison,  from  which  he  emerged  but  to  die  from 
combined  horror,  grief  and  bad  treatment,  a  few  days  after  the 
death  of  Robespierre  had  put  an  end  to  the  reign  of  terror. 

William  Tell,  written  in  prison,  and  Don  Quixote,  a  free 
translation  from  Cervantes,  were  not  published  till  long  after 
his  death.  The  Blind  Man  and  the  Paralytic,  alluded  to  in  the 
text,  is  the  name  of  one  of  the  best  known  of  his  Fables,  incul- 
cating the  moral  that  we  should  assist  each  other.  His  works 
have  been  translated  into  several  languages,  and  he  is  still  quite 
popular  in  France  from  the  smoothness  of  his  style  and  its  gentle, 
pleasing  sensibility. 

Note  67  —  ARIOSTO  —page  no. 

LoDOVico  Ariosto  (1474-1533),  surnamed  \he  Divine,  au- 
thor of  Orlando  Fiirioso,  and  one  of  the  great  Italian  poets, 


ARIOSTO.  317 

passed  his  infancy  and  the  greater  part  of  his  life  in  Fcrrara, 
the  capital  of  the  duchy  of  that  name,  and  at  the  time  one  of 
the  most  flourishing  and  poHshcd  towns  of  Europe.  The  citi- 
zens still  point  out  the  house  of  his  ancestors,  and  show  us  the 
very  apartment  where  the  young  poet,  with  his  brothers  and 
sisters,  played  Pyramus  attd  Thisbk,  a  tragedy  composed  in  his 
tenth  year.  They  also  show  the  house,  built  by  himself,  to 
which  he  removed  after  his  father's  death ;  over  the  doorway 
the  following  inscription  is  still  visible  : 

Parva,  sed  apta  tnihi,  sed  nulli  ohnoxia,  sed  non 
Sordida,  parta  tneo  sed  tanten  aere  domus, 

(This  house  is  small,  but  it  suits  my  circumstances ;  it  is  in  nobody's  way,  it  is 
not  mean,  and  it  has  been  acquired  by  my  own  money.) 

When  asked  by  a  friend  how  he,  who  had  created  so  many 
splendid  palaces  in  his  poems,  could  bear  to  build  such  an 
humble  structure,  he  replied:  ''Amico  rnio , porvi parole  e porvi 
pietre  era  ben  altro  (my  friend,  word-building  and  stone-build- 
ing are  two  very  different  things)."  Obeying  the  orders  of  his 
father,  a  trusted  soldier  high  in  favor  with  the  Duke,  he  prose- 
cuted the  law  for  five  years,  "  five  years  lost,"  he  says  himself, 
but  finally  he  gave  it  up  for  the  more  congenial  pursuit  of  litera- 
ture. His  principal  master  was  Gregory  of  Spoleto,  under  whom 
he  acquired  a  good  knowledge  of  Latin,  but,  his  teacher  being 
carried  off  to  France  to  superintend  the  instruction  of  a  young 
Italian  prince  detained  there  as  a  hostage,  Ariosto  never  learned 
Greek.  At  his  father's  death  he  found  himself  involved  in  diffi- 
culties, from  which  he  was  never  able  to  extricate  himself  wholly 
as  long  as  he  hved.  As  the  eldest  of  the  children,  he  felt  him- 
self obliged  to  support  his  mother,  five  sisters,  and  five  brothers, 
one  of  them  a  cripple,  an  obligation  keeping  him  so  closely 
occupied  as  often  to  make  his  very  life  a  burden. 

His  principal  employment  at  this  time  was  that  of  chief  secre- 
tary to  Cardinal  Hippolito  d'Este,  Duke  Alfonso's  brother,  who, 
though  no  great  lover  of  poetry,  had  a  great  admiration  for  his 
literary  talents.  Ariosto  must  have  had  a  busy  time  of  it.  Al- 
fonso, Lucretia  Borgia's  husband  and  an  ally  of  the  French 
27* 


3l8  NOTES. 

against  the  national  party  headed  by  the  Pope,  was  almost  con* 
tinually  at  war.  Of  these  troubles  Ariosto  had  his  share.  Some- 
times we  find  him  sent  to  Rome  and  elsewhere  on  important 
embassies ;  sometimes  we  find  him  risking  his  life  in  terrible 
battles ;  most  of  the  time  he  is  kept  closely  at  work  by  the  Car- 
dinal at  his  clerical  duties  ;  and  he  is  never  free  from  the  irksome- 
ness  of  supporting  the  family,  educating  and  establishing  his 
brothers,  and  getting  his  sisters  respectably  married.  Yet  in 
ihe  midst  of  all  these  distracting  occupations  he  found  time  to 
commence  and  complete  his  great  poem.  His  friend  Bembo, 
at  this  time  a  learned  layman  and  afterwards  a  famous  Cardinal, 
hearing  of  his  project,  advised  him  to  write  his  poem  in  Latin 
verse  :  "  No,"  said  he,  "  I  would  rather  be  first  among  the  Tus- 
can poets  than  second  among  the  Latin."  He  was  not  deficient 
in  self-confidence.  "  Instead  of  an  epic,"  said  he  to  one  of  his 
friends,  "  I  shall  write  a  romantic  poem,  but  one  of  such  gran- 
deur, both  in  subject  and  style,  that  no  poet  will  ever  hope  to 
surpass  me,  or  even  to  equal  me,  in  a  poem  of  the  same  kind." 
The  result  of  this  determination,  Orlando  Furioso  (Roland  the 
Furious),  though  a  continuation  of  Orlando  Inamorato  (Roland 
in  Love),  written  a  few  years  before  by  Boiardo,  another  Fer- 
rara  poet,  and  greatly  admired  at  the  time,  is  entirely  original, 
occupying  its  author  at  least  eleven  years  in  its  composition. 
It  is  a  splendid  tale  of  chivalry  told  in  poetry,  recounting  the 
marvellous  exploits  of  the  knights-errant,  particularly  of  7?^/.a:«^, 
Charlemagne's  nephew,  who  goes  mad  when  he  hears  that  his 
loved  Angelica  is  married  to  another,  and  of  Astolpho,  who 
rides  to  paradise  on  the  Hippogriff,  and  finds  there  Roland' % 
senses,  narrating  the  loves  of  Rogero  and  Bradainante,  mingling 
with  great  art  the  gay  and  the  grave,  the  charming  and  the 
terrible,  and  introducing  many  lively  tales  to  vary  the  heavier 
parts  of  the  poem.  Its  versification  is  rich,  harmonious,  easy, 
free,  and  still  so  highly  finished  that  his  countrymen  have  called 
him  the  Divine  Lodovico.  Nevertheless,  like  much  English 
poetry  of  the  same  and  even  of  a  later  period,  it  mingles  the 
sacred  and  the  profane  in  such  an  indiscriminate  jumble,  and 
often  shows  such  little  respect  for  even  ordinary  decency  that 


ARIOSTO.  319 

Cardinal  Hippolito,  his  patron,  to  whom  it  was  dedicated,  far 
from  feeling  proud  of  the  compliment,  or  thanking  the  poet 
for  the  distinction,  saluted  him  with  the  often  quoted  words : 
Dove  diavolo,  Messer  Lodovico,  avete  pigliato  tante  coglionerie  f 
(Where  the  Fiend,  Master  Louis,  did  you  manage  to  pick  up 
such  a  heap  of  nastiness  ?)  I 

The  poet's  feeble  health  not  allowing  him  to  accompany  the 
Cardinal  to  Hungary  in  1518,  Ariosto  entered  the  service  of 
Duke  Alfonso,  who,  however,  was  at  this  time  so  much  harassed 
by  frequent  wars  that  he  was  not  always  able  to  pay  his  em- 
ployes their  regular  salary.  Perhaps  it  was  some  necessity  of 
this  kind  that  compelled  him  to  send  Ariosto  as  governor  to  a 
wild  province  among  the  Apennines,  Garafagna,  on  the  marches 
of  Lucca,  infested  with  bandits  and  other  rebellious  spirits  pro- 
duced by  the  disordered  state  of  the  country.  The  poet,  how- 
ever, is  said  to  have  discharged  his  difficult  task  with  such  pru- 
dence and  determination,  that  by  the  end  of  three  years  he  had 
reduced  these  ferocious  characters  to  submission  to  the  Duke's 
authority,  and  restored  the  country  to  complete  peace  and  order. 
Speaking  of  this  period  in  his  life,  an  Italian  biographer  relates 
that  one  day,  when  passing  through  a  mountain  defile,  the  gov- 
ernor, accompanied  by  only  a  few  servants,  suddenly  found 
himself  in  the  presence  of  an  armed  band  of  robbers,  so  well 
prepared,  and  so  numerous  as  to  put  all  idea  of  resistance  out 
of  the  question.  What  is,  however,  the  poet's  surprise  when,  in- 
stead of  being  attacked,  he  sees  himself  respectfully  approached, 
cap  in  hand,  by  the  iDandit  captain,  Pacchione,  who  has  just 
learned  his  name  from  a  servant.  In  most  courtly  language 
the  robber  chief  expresses  his  delight  at  having  met  the  im- 
mortal author  of  Orlando  Furioso,  and  asks  as  a  great  favor  to 
be  informed  how  he  can  be  most  serviceable  to  such  an  illus- 
trious gentleman.  Whether  true  or  not,  this  story  is  character- 
istic, and  would  make  a  fine  subject  for  a  painter  able  to  do  it 
justice. 

After  his  return  to  Ferrara,  the  rest  of  his  life  was  passed  in 
discharging  his  ordinary  duties,  in  retouching  his  Poem  with 
much  care  and  attention,  in  writing  plays,  and  superintending 


320  NOTES. 

their  performance  in  the  beautiful  theatre  constricted  after  his 
own  designs.  His  health  was  never  good,  and  he  died  at  the 
comparatively  early  age  of  59. 

In  addition  to  a  fine  person  and  noble  presence,  Ariosto  pos- 
sessed an  engaging  address,  polished  manners,  and  a  most 
amiable  disposition.  He  was  passionately  fond  of  indepen- 
dence, as  can  easily  be  seen  by  his  poetry.  Encumbered  with 
the  care  of  his  father's  numerous  family,  he  never  married  until 
near  the  close  of  his  life,  and  even  then  it  was  a  secret  marriage, 
probably  because  he  was  in  the  enjoyment  of  some  small  eccle- 
siastical benefice.  Titian  painted  his  portrait,  and  some  say  he 
was  crowned  as  poet  by  the  Emperor  Charles  V. 

Of  his  Orlando  Furioso  (Rose's  translation  is  the  best)  it  may 
be  said  that  whilst  its  extraordinary  merits  have  consigned  to 
eternal  oblivion  the  countless  romances  of  the  preceding  cen- 
turies, its  own  glory  was  soon  eclipsed  by  that  of  Tasso's  yeru- 
salem  Delivered,  a  poem  of  the  same  style,  but  far  superior  in 
grandeur  of  conception,  development  of  character,  splendor  of 
ideas,  a  fine  sense  of  moral  beauty,  and  more  enthralling  human 
interest. 

Note  68  —  COUSIN  —  page  no. 

Victor  Cousin  ( 1 792-1 867 ) ,  Member  of  the  French  Academy, 
Peer  of  France,  Educationist,  and  founder  of  Eclectic  Philoso- 
phy, son  of  a  goldsmith  and  violent  revolutionist,  was  born  in 
Paris  the  very  year  the  first  Republic  was  proclaimed,  and  re- 
ceived his  education  in  the  Lycee  Charlemagne.  In  his  eigh- 
teenth year  he  entered  the  famous  Normal  School,  heading  the 
list  of  the  first  37  successful  applicants  that  were  admitted  into 
that  newly  organized  establishment.  Though  interes  ed  in 
rhetoric  and  music,  he  was  powerfully  attracted  by  his  teacher 
Laromiguiere's  exposition  of  philosophy.  "  The  first  day  I 
heard  him,"  he  says,  "  decided  my  life.  He  taught  Locke's 
and  Condillac's  philosophy,  happily  modified  on  some  points, 
with  a  clearness  and  grace  that  appeared  to  remove  every  diffi- 
culty, and  with  a  charming  spiritual  bonhomie  that  penetrated 
and  subdued."     His  next  teachers  were   Royer-Collard,  pro 


COUSIN.  ■'  321 

fessor  of  philosophy  at  the  Sorbonne,  and  Maine  de  Biran,  one 
of  the  most  profound  metaphysicians  of  his  time.  His  talents 
soon  obtained  for  him  the  appointment  of  teacher  in  the  Normal 
School,  and  from  181 5  he  lectured  on  philosophy  in  the  Sor- 
bonne, supplementing  Royer-Collard,  who  had  been  raised  to 
a  civil  office  at  the  Restoration. 

In  1822  France  was  in  a  very  disturbed  state.  The  feud  be- 
tween the  Reactionaries  and  the  Liberals  had  come  to  a  crisis. 
For  some  time  it  was  doubtful  which  should  give  way.  But  the 
rapid  spread  of  the  secret  societies,  the  assassination  of  the  Duke 
of  Berry,  murdered  expressly  to  put  an  end  to  the  Bourbons, 
the  riotous  insubordination  of  the  students  at  most  of  the  govern- 
ment schools,  and  other  alarming  symptoms  of  an  impending 
revolution  at  last  frightened  the  country  to  such  a  degree  that 
the  Reactionaries  or  Conservatives  were  for  a  while  allowed  to 
do  as  they  pleased,  and  the  Liberals  had  to  succumb.  Among 
other  measures  dictated  by  terror  or  prudence,  Guizot  was  re- 
moved from  the  chair  of  history  in  the  Sorbonne,  the  Sorbonne 
itself,  the  law,  military,  and  medical  schools  were  temporarily 
suspended,  and  the  Normal  School  was  closed  indefinitely. 
Cousin's  lectures  on  free-will  being  considered  to  have  a  political 
intent,  his  course  had  been  already  suspended  in  1821. 

Having  already  visited  Germany  during  his  vacations,  and 
made  acquaintance  with  some  of  its  leading  philosophers. 
Cousin,  taking  advantage  of  his  leisure,  and  having  charge  of 
the  education  of  a  son  of  Marshal  Lannes,  visited  that  country 
again,  but  in  1824  he  was  thrown  into  prison  at  Berlin,  and 
detained  there  six  months,  either  being  suspected  of  carbona- 
rism,  or  having  rendered  himself  obnoxious  to  the  police  by 
offensive  expressions  incautiously  uttered. 

This  double  "  martyrdom  "  in  the  cause  of  liberty,  and  the 
interest  excited  by  his  Philosophical  Fraginents  (1826-28)  ren- 
dered him  so  popular  that  the  resumption  of  his  lectures  at 
the  Sorbonne,  which  the  Reactionists  were  now  powerless  to 
prevent,  kindled  a  tremendous  enthusiasm  among  the  students. 
All  Paris,  in  fact,  came  to  hear  and  applaud  the  famous  pro- 
fessor, whose  reappointment  was  hailed  as  a  great  triumph  for 

V 


322  "  NOTES. 

constitutional  ideas.  But,  independent  of  all  this,  he  was  well 
worth  hearing,  and  as  an  orator  enjoyed  the  highest  reputation. 
He  was  exceedingly  eloquent,  but  even  in  his  warmest  flights  he 
never  forgot  himself.  If  any  one  could  teach  the  Parisians  phi- 
losophy, Cousin  was  the  man.  The  simplest  could  understand 
him,  the  highest  could  rehsh  him.  The  students,  accustomed 
to  the  dry,  crabbed  phraseology  of  the  other  professors,  adored 
the  lecturer  who  made  philosophy  almost  as  interesting  as  a 
novel.  Grand  and  comprehensive  in  outline,  he  excited  the 
reason  ;  by  a  clear,  methodical  and  picturesque  treatment  of 
detail,  he  captured  the  attention.  "  Popular  as  Abelard,"  as  was 
said  at  the  time,  "  he  was  as  impressive  and  majestic  as  Bossuet." 
His  influence  was  immense  in  reviving  a  taste  for  ideal  phi- 
losophy in  France,  which  had  been  almost  completely  destroyed 
by  the  sensationalism  of  the  eighteenth  century. 

The  Revolution  of  1830,  interrupting  his  lectures,  turned  his 
attention  to  politics,  but  principally  to  education.  In  1831  he 
became  a  member  of  the  Board  oi  Public  Instruction ;  in  1832 
he  was  made  director  of  the  Normal  School ;  in  1833  his  report 
on  the  system  of  public  instruction  in  Prussia  became  the  basis 
of  the  common  school  system  of  France.  Indeed,  until  the 
overthrow  of  the  July  dynasty  in  1848,  Cousin  might  be  con- 
sidered the  main  director  of  the  philosophical  and  even  literary 
studies  of  young  France,  the  grand  corner-stone  of  what  was 
often  called  in  derision  "State  Philosophy."  And,  though  he 
was  bitterly  attacked,  both  by  theologians  and  socialists,  it  can- 
not be  denied  that  he  has  done  more  than  any  other  man  of 
the  century  for  establishing  and  improving  primary  education 
throughout  France.  In  1840  he  became  Minister  of  Public  In- 
struction during  Thiers'  short  administration,  and  in  1844  made 
his  famous  speech,  before  the  Chamber  of  Peers,  in  defence  of 
the  University  and  Philosophy.  In  1848  he  aided  the  Revolu- 
tion by  a  series  of  Tracts,  in  the  most  popular  of  which,  entitled 
Justice  and  Charity,  he  combated  the  doctrines  of  socialism. 

During  the  last  eighteen  years  of  his  life  he  seems  to  have 
taken  little  interest  in  politics,  education,  or  even  philosophy. 
Placed  on  the  retired  list  of  honorary  professors,  he  passed 


COUSIN.  323 

the  greater  part  of  that  time  economically  but  pleasantly  in  a 
suite  of  rooms  in  the  Sorbonne,  studying  the  manners  and  cus- 
toms of  his  favorite  seventeenth  century,  and  writing  con  amore 
most  charming  biographies  of  the  famous  women  that  illustrated 
that  interesting  period  of  French  history.  His  magnificent 
library  of  i4,ocx)  volumes  he  bequeathed  to  the  Sorbonne,  where 
a  monument  has  been  erected  to  his  memory. 

Few  philosophers  have  attracted  the  attention  of  their  con- 
temporaries more  powerfully  than  Cousin,  yet,  though  an  en- 
thusiast on  the  subject,  and  a  voluminous  writer,  he  cannot  be 
said  to  have  originated  any  distinct  system  of  philosophy.  He 
simply  published  system  after  system,  elucidating  them,  popu- 
larizing them,  presenting  their  distinctive  features  with  all  the 
charms  of  a  captivating  style,  and  then  endeavored  to  deduce 
a  philosophy  of  his  own,  by  picking  out  all  the  good  points, 
and  rigidly  rejecting  all  the  rest.  A  man  of  little  originality, 
but  of  profound  learning,  and  strongly  infused  with  good  com- 
mon sense,  he  reminds  us  of  Cicero  who  readily  believed  and 
supported  every  doctrine  that  strongly  appealed  to  his  moral, 
religious  and  eminently  practical  instincts.  But  as  this  is  what 
most  of  us  do  in  our  own  small  way,  Eclecticis7n,  in  the  Cousin 
sense  of  the  term,  has  now  almost  ceased  to  designate  any  par- 
ticular school  of  philosophy. 

We  conclude  with  a  short  extract  from  Cousin's  writings, 
giving  us  in  a  few  words  the  substance  of  his  system,  and  a 
specimen  of  his  style. 


All  the  elements  of  human  reason  are  reducible  to  two  :  the  Relative  or  real,  and 
the  Absolute  or  ideal. — To  this  same  law  of  the  Relative  and  the  Absolute  the  science 
of  the  True,  the  Good,  and  the  Beautiful  is  also  subject. — Nor  can  the  science  of  the 
philosophy  of  history  escape  it.  The  great  facts  of  history  being  the  decrees  of 
a  providential  government,  and  God  animating  nature  and  humanity,  nature  and 
humanity  must  have  their  necessity,  and  the  judgments  of  history  must  be  the  judg- 
ments of  God  himself.  History  being  thus  the  judgment  of  God  rendered  visible, 
everything  finds  its  place  in  history,  everything  is  good.  Even  war  has  its  advan- 
tages, and  victory  is  necessary,  useful,  and  just;  the  conqueror  is  always  right,  and 
the  people  get  only  what  they  deserve.  Generally  everything  is  just  in  this  world, 
and  happiness  and  misery  are  about  as  evenly  divided  as  they  should  be.  Hence 
comes  historic  optimism,  the  highest  idea  to  which  philosophy  has  yet  risen.  The 
history  of  philosophy,  which  is  the  absolute  and  adequate  exposition  of  the  nature 


324  NOTES. 

of  thought  by  thought  itself,  and  of  which  the  history  of  civilization  is  only  thfi 
pedestal,  undergoes  the  same  ternary  law  as  philosophy  itself;  therefore,  sensation- 
alism and  idealisin  having  inspired  it  by  turns,  it  is  now  the  turn  of  eclecticism  to 
take  its  share  of  the  task ;  for  eclecticism  is  now  the  only  philosophy  possible  in 
the  nineteenth  century,  the  only  standpoint  from  which  the  history  of  philosophy 
can  be  written. 


Note69  —  LONGUEVILLE  — page  III. 

Anne  Genevieve  de  Bourbon-Conde  (1619-1679),  sister  of 
the  great  Conde,  and  celebrated  all  over  Europe  for  her  wit, 
grace,  and  beauty,  had  been  so  carefully  educated  by  her  pious 
mother  that  she  at  first  thought  very  seriously  of  retiring  to  a 
convent ;  but,  being  induced  by  some  friends  to  visit  a  court 
ball  one  evening,  she  was  so  dazzled  by  the  sensation  created 
by  her  beauty  that  she  suddenly  renounced  the  notion,  and 
soon  became  the  gayest  of  the  gay.  Married  at  23  to  the  Duke 
de  Longueville,  a  man  double  her  age,  she  led  a  wild  life  for 
several  years,  and,  when  that  curious  civil  war,  called  the  Fronde, 
broke  out  against  Cardinal  Mazarin,  first  minister  of  France 
during  the  minority  of  Louis  XIV.,  Madame  de  Longueville, 
naturally  fond  of  excitement  and  delighting  in  intrigue,  threw 
herself  headlong  into  the  rebellion,  becoming  at  once  its  heart 
and  soul.  When  the  troubles  were  all  over  at  last,  Madame 
was  still  in  the  splendor  of  her  beauty,  but  all  at  once,  when  on 
a  visit  to  a  convent,  she  felt  herself  seized  with  sentiments  of 
repentance,  sincere  enough  to  last  the  rest  of  her  life.  Here 
are  her  own  words  :  "  One  day,  while  listening  to  a  sister  read- 
ing some  pious  book,  I  suddenly  felt  as  if  a  curtain  had  been 
torn  away  from  before  my  eyes  ;  truth  stood  revealed  in  all  its 
charms  \  faith,  which  I  had  believed  to  be  dead  and  buried  long 
ago  under  my  passions,  showed  itself  still  alive ;  I  felt  myself 
to  be  like  a  person  who,  after  a  long  dream  in  which  he  has 
fancied  himself  to  be  great,  happy,  honored,  suddenly  awakes 
to  find  himself  loaded  with  chains,  covered  with  wounds,  ex- 
hausted with  pain,  and  shut  up  in  a  loathsome  dungeon." 
From  that  moment  she  quitted  at  once  and  for  ever  intrigues 
of  every  description,  and,  though  still  surrounded  by  the  seduc- 
tions of  the  world,  she  led  a  strictly  religious  life,  doing  every- 


BAUCIIER,  325 

thing  in  her  power,  by  alms  and  otherwise,  to  repair  the  ravages 
of  which  she  never  ceased  to  blame  herself  as  the  cause  by  her 
conduct  in  instigating  the  civil  war.  The  death  of  her  son,  the 
young  Count  de  Saint  Paul,  killed  while  gallantly  charging  at 
the  passage  of  the  Rhine  (1672),  gave  her  a  violent  shock.  In 
one  of  Madame  de  Sevigne's  letters  we  find  a  touching  descrip- 
tion of  the  manner  in  which  the  unhappy  mother  received  the 
terrible  tidings.  She  immediately  entered  the  Convent  of  Port 
Royal,  which  she  seldom  quitted,  except  to  visit  occasionally 
the  Carmelite  Sisters  in  Paris,  in  the  midst  of  whom  she  calmly 
expired  in  the  sixtieth  year  of  her  age.  Cousin  has  published 
two  interesting  volumes  on  the  life  and  times  of  this  famous 
princess. 

Note  70  — BAUCHER— page  113. 

FRANgoTS  Baucher  (1805-1873),  riding-master,  circus-master, 
inventor  of  a  "  New  Method  "  of  horsemanship,  is  well  known 
in  this  country  by  his  famous  work  published  in  Philadelphia  in 
1852,  and  still  highly  esteemed  by  trainers  generally.  By  a  sys- 
tematic series  of  gymnastic  exercises  of  the  animal's  muscles, 
especially  those  of  the  neck  and  jaw,  his  method  claims  to  be 
able  to  reduce  the  horse  to  the  rider's  complete  subjection,  and 
its  results  are  not  exaggerated  by  Legouve ;  but  the  French  gov- 
ernment, after  repeated  trials,  seems  to  have  considered  it  too 
refined  for  general  adoption  in  the  cavalry  service. 

Note  71  — JANIN  —  page  126. 

Jules  Gabriel  Janin  (1804- 1874),  the  famous  dramatic  critic, 
for  nearly  forty  years  the  brilliant,  gossipping,  piquant,  airy, 
dashing  and  ^x?iCtiv\  feuilletoniste  of  the  yotirnal  des  Debats, 
Member  of  the  French  Academy  (1870),  founder  of  the  Revui 
de  Paris,  and  the  yournal  des  Enfans,  began  his  literary  career 
as  a  violent  opposer  of  the  government,  continuing  his  attacks 
even  after  the  Revolution  of  July.  In  1836,  however,  he  managed 
to  obtain  the  good  graces  of  Louis  Philippe,  and  became  chief 
editor  of  the  dramatic  department  of  the  Debats,  where  he  con- 
tinued making  and  unmaking  reputations  at  will  until  his  death 
in  1874.  His  other  works  in  the  shape  of  romances  of  all  kinds, 
28 


326  NOTES. 

travels,  pictorial  histories,  essays,  prefaces,  translations,  alma- 
nacs, album,  keepsake  and  magazine  articles,  miscellanies, 
etc.,  are  actually  without  number.  The  best  is  a  so-called  His- 
tory of  Dramatic  Literature  (1858,  6  vols.),  a  careful  selection 
from  his  most  careful  feuilletoti  articles.  He  dubbed  himself 
the  Prince  of  Criticism,  and  few  ever  dared  to  dispute  the  title. 
At  the  close  of  our  sketch  of  Rachel  (page  179),  the  reader  may 
find  a  favorable  instance  of  Janin's  peculiar  style. 

Note  72  —  MERLE  —  page  126. 

Jean  T.  Merle  (1785-1852),  a  journalist  and  dramatic  author 
of  distinction.  Director  of  the  Porte  St.  Martin  theatre  in  1822, 
tried,  but  without  success,  to  introduce  some  English  novelties 
on  the  French  stage.  In  1830  he  accompanied  the  French  army 
to  Algeria  as  historiographer  of  the  expedition.  His  critical 
and  historical  works  are  very  numerous,  most  of  them  appear- 
ing in  the  newspapers  and  magazines.  His  plays,  generally 
produced  with  some  coUaborateur,  amount  to  at  least  120,  and 
some  have  been  highly  successful.  The  most  remarkable  are  : 
Z^  ci-devant  Jeune  Homme,  Le  Savetier  et  le  Finaticier,  Le 
Bourguemestre  de  Saardam,  and  the  farce  of  Jocrisse. 

Note  73  —  ROLLE  —  page  126. 

Jacques  Hippolyte  Rolle  (1804 ),  distinguished  jour- 

nahst,  born  in  Dijon,  completed  his  education  in  Paris,  where  he 
also  studied  law,  but,  preferring  literature,  he  wrote  in  the 
Figaro,  took  an  active  part  in  the  struggles  of  the  press  in  1830, 
attached  himself  to  the  National,  afterwards  to  the  Constitiition- 
nel,  principally  as  dramatic  critic,  his  articles  being  always  dis- 
tinguished for  severe  taste,  keen  satire,  and  an  elegant  style. 
In  1849  h^  ^^s  decorated  with  the  Legion  of  Honor,  and  during 
the  Empire  received  the  position  of  Director  of  the  City  of 
Paris  Library. 

Note  74  — GTJIZOT  — page  129. 

FRANgois  P.  G.  GuizoT  (1787-1874),  professor,  historian, 
Doctrinaire,  statesman,  born  at  Nimes  in  southern  France,  at 


GUIZOT.  327 

the  age  of  seven  lost  his  father  who,  though  a  Protestant  and 
therefore  friendly  to  the  Revolution  in  some  of  its  aspects,  could 
not  help  exclaiming  against  its  crimes  and  excesses,  and  of 
course  perished  on  the  scaffold.  Taken  to  Geneva  by  his 
mother,  young  Guizot  studied  with  great  distinction  in  that 
metropolis  of  Calvinism,  and  in  1805  accompanied  the  Swiss 
Minister  Stapfer  to  Paris  as  tutor  to  his  children.  During  the 
Empire  he  took  no  part  in  politics,  contenting  himself  with 
studying  German  philosophy,  classical  literature,  and  the  history 
of  England,  for  which  country  he  always  professed  a  great  admi- 
ration. Towards  18 12  he  had  acquired  such  distinction  by  his 
articles  in  the  Ptibliciste,  and  by  several  successful  volumes,  par- 
ticularly a  Dictionary  of  French  Synonyms,  and  an  annotated 
edition  of  Gibbon's  Rise  and  Fall  of  the  Roman  Efupire,  that 
his  friends  succeeded  in  obtaining  for  him  the  appointment  of 
professor  of  Modern  History  in  the  Sorbonne. 

With  the  Restoration,  Guizot' s  political  history  commenced, 
and  for  thirty  years  his  history  was  pretty  much  the  history  of 
France.  His  part  at  first  was  somewhat  peculiar,  and  certainly 
the  first  half  of  his  public  career  was  by  far  the  more  glorious. 
The  two  great  parties  dividing  the  country  at  that  time  were : 
the  Royalists,  flushed  with  their  victory,  and  determined  to  do 
everything  for  the  defence  of  the  throne ;  and  the  Liberals, 
conscious  of  their  defeat,  but  not  ashamed  of  it,  and  willing  to 
accept  its  consequences,  provided  the  Chart,  guaranteeing  con- 
stitutional liberty,  a  king  with  responsible  ministers,  and  two 
representative  Chambers,  was  faithfully  carried  out.  But  in  the 
excited  state  of  men's  minds,  moderation  on  either  side  was 
extremely  difficult,  the  extremists,  as  usual,  making  it  almost 
impossible.  Besides  these  two  great  parties,  another,  proclaim- 
ing a  strong  attachment  alike  to  the  Bourbons  and  the  Chart, 
and  undertaking  to  royalize  the  natio?t  a?td  nationalise  the  roy- 
alists, was  known  as  the  Doctrinary  party,  named  so  perhaps 
in  derision,  or  perhaps  because  it  plumed  itself  on  a  strict  inter- 
pretation of  the  fundamental  doctrinal  points  of  a  really  repre- 
sentative government.  In  politics  the  Doctrinaires  somewhat 
corresponded  with  the  Eclectics  in  philosophy.     The  best  reprf" 


328  NOTES. 

sentative  of  this  party  among  the  Deputies  was  Royer-Collar^ 
among  the  Peers  the  Duke  of  Broglie,  and  in  the  press  Guizot. 
When  Decazes,  a  moderate  royahst,  and  a  favorite  of  Louis 
XVIII.,  was  ordered  to  form  a  ministry  in  1818,  he  appointed 
Guizot  director-general  of  the  Administration. 

Under  the  guidance  of  such  men,  supported  by  the  solid  sense 
of  the  nation  at  large,  France  would  have  progressed  rapidly 
on  the  road  of  order  and  prosperity,  if  she  had  not  been  con- 
tinually interrupted  by  the  ultra  Royalists  on  the  one  side,  and 
the  ultra  Liberals  or  Revolutionists,  on  the  other.  The  assas- 
sination of  the  Duke  of  Berry,  heir  apparent,  by  a  fanatical 
workman  who  wished  to  end  the  Bourbons,  excited  such  a  cry 
of  horror  and  alarm  throughout  the  country  that  the  Doctri 
naires  retired  before  the  storm,  Guizot  sent  in  his  resignation, 
and,  his  historical  lectures  being  considered  rather  revolutionary, 
he  was  deprived  of  his  chair,  and  the  Sorbonne  itself  tempo- 
rarily closed. 

The  silence  of  the  professor  allowing  the  writer  more  leisure, 
the  next  five  or  six  years  form  the  most  laborious  and  most  fer- 
tile era  of  his  literary  life.  His  works  published  at  this  time 
were  mostly  immense  collections  of  Memoirs,  translated  some- 
times, and  always  annotated  by  himself,  relating  to  the  early 
history  of  France,  or  to  the  history  of  the  English  Revolution, 
a  subject  for  which  he  always  showed  an  especial  predilection. 
On  the  return  of  the  moderates  to  office  in  1828,  Guizot  was 
reinstated  in  the  Sorbonne,  where  he  delivered,  with  the  most 
enthusiastic  applause,  his  Course  of  Modern  History,  his  Ge7terat, 
History  of  European  Civilization,  and  his  History  of  Civiliza- 
tion in  Fra?tce.  This  was  the  period  of  his  greatest  popularity. 
The  citizens  of  Lisieux,  in  Normandy,  elected  him  as  their  repre- 
sentative in  the  Chamber  of  Deputies. 

The  moderate  Martignac  cabinet  not  being  supported  by  its 
party,  the  ultra-royalist,  anti-revolutionary,  no  compromise, 
Polignac  ministry  easily  came  into  power,  and  we  all  know 
that  the  final  fall  of  the  Bourbons  was  the  result.  Guizot  was  a 
busy  man  in  those  days.  It  was  his  hand  that  wrote  the  famous 
protest  of  July  27  against  the  Ordonnances,  and  it  was  his  hand 


GUIZOT.  329 

that  penned  the  proclamation  of  July  31,  announcing  the  nomi- 
nation of  Louis  Philippe,  Duke  of  0/leans,  to  the  Lieutenant- 
Generalship  of  the  Kingdom.  On  August  11,  Louis  Philippe, 
King  of  the  French,  in  his  turn  nominated  Guizot  minister  of 
the  interior. 

The  first  care  of  the  new  ministry  was  to  set  the  new  govern- 
ment right  in  the  eyes  of  Europe,  no  easy  matter  seeing  that 
the  Revolution,  starting  from  but  a  small  fraction  of  the  coun 
try,  had  given  an  enormous  impulse  to  the  audacious  aspira- 
tions of  the  extreme  Republicans,  These  made  no  secret  of 
excb.iming  that  the  reconstruction  of  the  throne  was  an  infamous 
piece  of  deception,  and  their  actions  fully  accorded  with  their 
words.  The  ministry  was  too  much  divided  as  to  the  proper 
mode  of  dealing  with  these  difficulties,  to  remain  long  in  office, 
but  its  successor,  the  Laffitte  ministry,  had  even  less  success. 
Churches  were  demolished,  the  Archbishop's  residence  pillaged, 
his  splendid  library  thrown  into  the  Seine,  the  cross  was  insulted 
and  the  lilies  of  France  openly  torn  down  ;  a  ministry  capable 
of  allowing  the  perpetration  of  such  excesses  retired  before  the 
storm  of  general  indignation,  and  Casimir  Perier  was  called  on 
to  form  a  cabinet. 

This  energetic  minister  soon  restored  order.  As  long  as  he 
held  the  helm  of  state,  no  mob  dared  to  commit  an  outrage 
with  impunity,  no  foreign  government  dared  to  treat  France 
with  disrespect.  He  suppressed  the  insurrection  at  Lyons,  freed 
Belgium  by  driving  the  Hollanders  out  of  Antwerp,  and  headed 
off  Austria's  interferen:e  in  Italy  by  seizing  Ancona.  His  bold 
and  prudent  measures  were  rapidly  restoring  order  at  home, 
and  respect  abroad  when,  unfortunately,  this  true  patriot  died 
suddenly  of  cholera,  which  he  had  caught  by  visiting  an  infected 
hospital.  The  death  of  this  great  minister  was  a  severe  blow 
to  the  friends  of  the  government,  but  its  enemies  had  at  the 
same  time  received  blows  just  as  severe.  The  Legitimists  were 
thrown  into  despair  by  the  failure  of  the  Duchess  of  Berry  in 
La  Vendee,  the  Republicans  by  a  tremendous  defeat  in  the 
streets  of  Paris,  and  the  Napoleonists  by  the  unexpected  death 
of  their  chief  hope,  the  Duke  of  Reichstadt.  These  coinci- 
28* 


330  NOTES. 

dences  rendered  tne  formation  of  a  new  ministry  an  easy  task 
under  Soult,  in  which  Guizot  received  the  portfoho  of  pubHc  in- 
straction,  and  retained  it  for  four  years. 

In  this  employment  he  was  truly  at  home.  As  a  great  pro- 
fessor few  surpassed  him  ;  as  a  grand  organizer  of  public  edu- 
cation none  equalled  him  ;  his  enlightened  and  successful  efforts 
during  the  four  years  of  his  administration  to  establish  primary 
schools  throughout  the  length  and  breadth  of  France,  and  to 
ameliorate  the  condition  of  the  teachers  should  entitle  him  to 
the  eternal  gratitude  of  his  countrymen.  "  No  consideration 
of  sect  or  party  should  affect  you,"  he  wrote  to  the  teachers; 
"  you  should  keep  yourselves  high  above  all  the  momentary 
issues  that  are  continually  distracting  society.  Faith  in  Provi- 
dence, the  sanctity  of  duty,  submission  to  parents,  respect  for 
the  law,  honor  for  the  prince,  and  a  strict  regard  for  the  rights 
of  another  —  these  are  the  sentiments  that  you  should  con- 
tinually inculcate."  Far  from  confining  himself  to  mere  words, 
he  watched  strictly  after  the  execution  of  the  new  law,  and 
spared  no  pains  to  have  its  best  features  impartially  carried  out. 
If  he  had  persevered  in  this  career,  and  not  devoted  himself  to 
politics,  for  which,  in  spite  of  his  long  continuance  in  office,  he 
never  showed  any  real  aptitude,  it  is  not  too  much  to  say  that 
the  French  would  have  been  as  well  educated  long  ago  as  the 
Germans  are  to-day.  In  his  famous  speech  in  support  of  this 
law,  it  is  worthy  of  remark  that  Guizot,  though  an  austere  Pro- 
testant, took  occasion  to  pay  a  high  tribute  to  the  self-sacrificing 
Brothers  of  the  Christian  Schools. 

The  attempt  on  Louis  Philippe's  life,  in  1835,  by  Fieschi's 
infernal  ??tackine,  killing  12  and  wounding  28,  raised  such  an 
outcry  against  the  ministry  as  necessitated  its  retirement,  and  it 
would  take  us  too  long  to  detail  Guizot's  unwise  proceedings  to 
install  himself  once  more  in  power.  The  famous  coalition,  the 
result  of  intrigues  between  himself  and  Thiers,  a  man  of  almost 
directly  opposite  views  on  everything,  disgusted  his  old  friends, ' 
and  made  the  Jourfial  des  Debats  exclaim :  "  Some  day  you 
may  perhaps  receive  our  support,  but  our  esteem  never !  " 

During  the  Thiers  administration,  Guizot,  sent  to  London  as 


GUIZOT.  331 

ambassador,  was  treated  with  signal  distinction  on  account  of 
his  religion,  and  the  prominence  he  had  given  in  his  writings  to 
EngHsh  history  and  English  literature.  But  his  negotiations  on 
the  Eastern  Question,  at  that  time  how  to  settle  the  war  between 
Egypt  and  the  Sultan,  were  a  complete  failure.  Thiers  was  so 
chagrined,  and  France  so  indignant  at  being  left  out  altogether 
in  the  Treaty  of  London  (1840)  that  the  Marseillaise  was  sung 
in  Paris,  a  hundred  million  francs  were  voted  for  extraordinary 
expenses,  laws  were  passed  to  fortify  Paris,  to  increase  the  army, 
call  home  the  fleet,  and  to  start  other  warlike  measures.  But 
all  these  threats  producing  no  effect  on  the  other  powers,  Louis 
Philippe  having  no  liking  whatever  for  war,  and  the  sober  second 
thought  of  the  country  blaming  the  ministry  altogether  for  hav- 
ing reduced  France  to  such  a  false  position,  Thiers  and  his 
Cabinet  could  do  no  better  than  send  in  their  resignation.  It 
was  instantly  accepted  by  the  king,  who  had  no  trouble  in  im- 
mediately forming  a  new  ministry  under  Soult,  with  Guizot  as 
Minister  of  Foreign  Affairs.  The  insult,  however,  offered  to 
France  by  this  Treaty  of  London,  whereby  England,  Russia, 
Austria,  and  Prussia,  arranged  the  whole  Eastern  Question  to 
their  own  satisfaction,  and  compelled  France  to  play  the  part 
of  a  noisy  blusterer,  deeply  wounded  that  country's  self-love, 
and  was  one  of  the  grievances  for  which  she  could  never  for- 
give Louis  Philippe. 

The  new  Cabinet,  nominally  under  Soult,  really  under  Guizot, 
was  Louis  Philippe's  longest,  but  it  was  his  last.  Many  consider 
it  the  meanest  ministry  that  ever  ruled  France.  "  Peace  at  any 
price  abroad,"  and  "  firm  resistance  to  everything  like  reform 
at  home,"  were  its  unchanging  mottoes.  The  nation's  indig- 
nation, shouted  in  thunder-tones,  fell  on  unruffled  ears.  "  Your 
insults  cannot  reach  the  level  of  my  contempt,"  was  the  scornful 
reply  of  the  stately  minister.  Neither  he  nor  the  king  seemed 
♦o  have  caught  the  least  glimpse  of  the  storm  that  was  so  rapidly 
approaching.  The  howling  people  might  make  the  welkin  ring 
with  cries  for  reforfn,  electoral,  parliamentary,  and  administra- 
tive ;  a  skilful  manipulation  of  the  legal  voters  by  the  ministry 
ensured  it  a  strong  working  majority  of  sleek,  docile,  and  de- 


332  NOTES. 

voted  office  holders.  The  art  of  governing,  intelligible  to  the 
meanest  capacity,  was  discovered  at  last.  England  might 
grumble  at  the  extension  of  French  arms  in  the  Society  Islands 
and  in  Algeria  ;  the  reply  was  the  marriage  of  the  Queen  of 
Spain's  sister  to  Louis  Philippe's  son,  giving  rise  to  the  very 
unpleasant  prospect  of  a  French  prince  occupying  the  Spanish 
throne.  It  was  an  additional  grievance  to  England  that  Guizot 
had  promised  Lord  Aberdeen  that  the  nuptials  should  not  take 
place  until  the  Queen  had  given  birth  to  a  direct  heir.  Even 
France  was  rather  irritated  than  flattered  at  the  success  of  the 
negotiation ;  instead  of  considering  it  a  triumph  of  French 
poHcy,  the  opposition  decried  it  as  the  sordid  success  of  a 
scheming  father  in  securing  his  son  a  comfortable  position  in 
the  world. 

Notwithstanding  all  this,  the  ministry  could  always  count  on 
an  imposing  majority ;  its  strength  in  fact  was  its  ruin.  Had 
the  majority  been  slighter,  ministers  would  have  been  more 
prudent.  Now,  no  reform,  nothing.  Things  went  rapidly  from 
bad  to  worse.  The  laboring  classes,  thrown  out  of  work,  be- 
came Socialists,  or,  not  being  allowed  to  vote,  revolutionists. 
Two  scandals  in  high  places  added  to  the  general  excitement, 
and  aroused  the  country  powerfully  against  the  Aristocrats. 
Two  ex-ministers  were  convicted  of  selling  their  official  in- 
fluence for  money ;  and  the  Duke  of  Praslin  poisoned  himself 
in  prison,  to  which  he  had  been  sent  for  murdering  his  wite 
under  circumstances  of  peculiar  horror. 

The  opposition,  despairing  of  redress  through  parliament,  had 
recourse  to  more  dangerous  means.  Reform  banquets  were 
organized  throughout  the  country.  The  result  is  well  known. 
As  already  mentioned  (page  291),  the  insurrection  broke  out  on 
February  23,  1848.  Guizot  and  his  Cabinet  resigned  on  the  24th. 
But  it  was  too  late.  The  destruction  of  an  unpopular  ministry 
involved  the  destruction  of  the  monarchy  itself,  and  the  establish- 
ment of  a  Republic  of  Liberty,  Equality,  and  Fraternity. 

Guizot  fled  to  England,  where  he  employed  his  leisure  mo- 
ments in  demonstrating  that  no  one  understood  better  than 
himself  the  principles  of  safe  and  real  reform.     But  not  being 


MA  ILL  ART.  333 

"ible  to  persuade  his  countrymen,  on  his  return  to  France  a  few 
years  later,  to  elect  him  to  a  seat  in  the  Chamber  of  Deputies, 
h*  retired  to  his  estate  at  Valricher,  near  Paris,  and  devoted  the 
remainder  of  his  days  to  literary  pursuits.  The  most  remark- 
able of  his  latter  works  are  "Memoirs  of  his  own  Ti7nes,'*  "  The 
Church  and  Christian  Society,''  a  defence  of  the  temporal  power 
of  the  Papacy,  and  the  "History  of  France  related  to  his  Grand- 
children.'^ 

Though  an  unsuccessful  and  unpopular  minister,  Guizot  — 
leaving  aside  some  political  manoeuvres  hard  to  reconcile  with 
strict  morality  —  was  a  highly  honorable  man.  A  ruler  of 
France,  for  eight  years,  he  left  office  as  poor  as  he  had  entered 
it.  An  uncompromising  Calvinist,  he  never  showed  any  narrow 
Protestant  bigotry.  Quite  the  contrary  ;  he  often  hurt  the  sus- 
ceptibilities of  his  coreligionists  by  what  they  considered  his 
intemperate  zeal  in  behalf  of  Catholics :  witness  his  warm  and 
hearty  welcome  of  the  Jesuit  Lacordaire  to  a  seat  in  the  French 
Academy  ;  and  again  his  famous  discourse  and  pamphlet  on 
the  Pope's  temporal  power.  "A  deplorable  disturbance,"  says 
he,  speaking  of  Victor  Emmanuel's  machinations  in  Italy, 
"  attacks  and  afflicts  a  considerable  portion  of  the  great  Chris- 
tian Church." 

As  an  orator  he  was  distinguished  by  elevated  ideas,  an  authori- 
tative tone,  and  firmness  rather  than  sweetness  of  language. 
These  qualities  and  defects  are  likewise  found  in  his  writir  gs. 
A  philosophic  historian,  he  asserts  rather  than  demonstrates. 
Caring  little  for  detail,  color,  or  dramatic  effect,  his  philosophic 
eye  often  loves  to  discover  broad  relations  in  history  invisible 
Jo  the  orc^nary  observer,  and  his  philosophic  pen  often  loves 
to  trace  those  grand  immutable  "  laws  "  that  hang  over  nations 
like  decrees  of  doom,  predestinating  a  fate  that  it  is  both  useless 
and  foolish  to  attempt  to  resist. 

Note  75  — MAILLART  — page  130. 

Maillart  (1812 ),  actor,  born  in  Metz,  of  parents  who 

were  provincial  comedians,  made  his  debut  when  quite  young. 
After  trying  printing  for  a  while,  he  turned  to  the  stage  again, 


334  NOTES. 

and  soon  appeared  at  the  Gaite,  Paris.  A  pensionnaire ,  or 
salaried  actor,  in  the  Theatre- Frangais  for  three  years,  he  left 
it  in  1 841  for  the  Varietes ;  but  entering  the  Frangais  again  in 
1846,  he  was  made  societaire,  or  associate,  the  same  year,  and 
remained  there  till  1863,  when  he  was  put  on  the  retired  list. 
In  spite  of  a  pronunciation  sometimes  imperfect,  of  gestures 
rather  negligent,  of  a  voice  too  low,  he  has  made  his  mark 
with  the  public,  creating  several  original  characters,  particularly : 
D' Aubigny  in  Mile  de  Belle  Isle,  Rodolfo  in  Angela,  Flavigneul 
in  The  Ladies'  Battle,  and  the  Marquis  in  Mademoiselle  de  La 
Seigliere,  one  of  his  greatest  triumphs. 

Note  76  — SARDOU  — page  131, 

ViCTORiEN  Sardou  (1831 ),  highly  successful  dramatic 

writer,  was  born  at  Paris,  the  son  of  Antoine  Sardou,  a  school- 
master and  educational  writer  of  some  distinction.  He  first 
studied  medicine,  but,  either  from  necessity  or  not  finding  it 
congenial,  he  soon  gave  it  up  for  literature,  supporting  himself 
as  well  as  he  could  by  giving  lessons,  and  writing  for  the  re- 
views, the  dictionaries,  or  the  inferior  journals.  In  1854  his 
first  play.  The  Stttdenfs  Tavern,  failed  miserably  at  the  Odeon, 
but  his  marriage  in  1858  with  a  Mademoiselle  de  Br^court,  intro- 
duced him  to  the  famous  Mademoiselle  Dejazet,  who,  though 
in  her  sixty-second  year,  was  at  that  time  starting  her  little 
theatre  on  the  Boulevard  Du  Temple.  Here  his  name  soon 
became  well  known,  Monsieur  Garat,  and  the  Pres  St.  Gervais, 
in  particular,  proving  quite  decided  successes. 

Once  sure  of  his  public,  Sardou's  industry  knew  no  bounds. 
It  was  no  unusual  occurrence  for  three  of  his  plays  to  appear 
the  same  night  in  three  different  theatres.  During  the  first 
twelve  years  of  his  career  he  wrote  at  least  twenty-four  suc- 
cessful plays  ;  those  best  known  in  this  country  are  Pattes  de 
Mouches  (A  Scrap  of  Paper),  Nos  Intimes,  Famille  Benoiton 
(The  Fast  Family),  Nos  Bons  Villageois,  Fernande,  Rabagas, 
Oncle  Sam,  Dora  (Diplomacy),  and  Le  Bourgeois  de  PontArcy, 
a  highly  successful  drama  in  five  acts,  which  appeared  in  1878. 

Such  marvellous  fecundity  has  laid  Sardou  open  to  the  charge 


PONSARD.  335 

of  plagiarism,  Edgar  Poe,  Barriere,  De  Bernard,  Assolant,  and 
many  others  being  pointed  out  as  the  authors  of  the  leading 
idea  of  his  dramas,  and  often  of  much  more.  This  he  does 
not  seem  to  deny,  but  nobody  can  contest  his  rapidity,  his  wit, 
his  fun,  his  sprightliness,  that  never  gives  you  time  to  reflect, 
and  that  always  leaves  the  impression  of  having  afforded  you 
^  hearty  amusement.  Another  fault  imputed  to  him  by  the 
critics  is  his  readiness  to  sacrifice  probability,  consistency,  deli- 
cacy, good  taste,  everything  for  one  violent,  sudden,  stunning 
effect.  .  The  whole  plot  leads  up  to  it,  and  it  is  sure  to  come, 
crushing  the  audience  with  a  terrible  blow,  and  extorting  their 
admiration  by  petrifying  them.  There  is  no  doubt,  however, 
that  while  many  of  his  plays  have  been  written  in  too  great  a 
hurry,  and  while  one  of  them,  U7icle  Sam,  puzzles  us  by  being 
the  production  of  such  a  capable  man,  many  others  are  very 
fine  dramas,  and  the  Famille  Benoiton  in  particular  is  a  very 
well  written  social  comedy. 

In  i877Sardou  was  elected  member  of  the  French  Academy 
in  preference  to  Duke  d'Audiffret  Pasquier.  President  of  the 
Senate,  who  at  that  particular  period  happened  to  be  laboring 
under  a  cloud  of  political  unpopularity. 

Note  77  — PONSARD  — page  134. 

Francois  Ponsard  (1814-1867),  dramatic  author  and  mem- 
ber of  the  French  Academy,  whilst  receiving  his  early  edu- 
cation at  Vienne,  on  the  Rhone,  his  native  city,  distinguished 
himself  by  his  talents  for  versification  ;  completing  his  classics 
at  Lyons,  he  was  sent  to  Paris  to  study  law.  Orderly,  industri- 
ous, but  not  neglecting  poetry,  he  accomplished  his  legal  studies 
with  great  success,  returned  to  Vienne  to  practise  at  the  bar, 
translated  into  elegant  French  verse  Byron's  Manfred,  and 
attended  to  the  poetical  department  of  a  local  review  just 
established. 

Rachel's  astonishing  success  having  revived  a  taste  for  classic 
studies  throughout  France,  Ponsard,  full  of  the  inspiration, 
wrote  the  five-act  tragedy  of  Lucrece  (Lucretia),  and  gave  the 
manuscript  to  his  friend  Reynaud  to  be  delivered  to  the  great 


33^  NOTES. 

tragic  queen.  But  Mademoiselle  did  not  deign  even  to  open  it. 
The  reading  committee  of  the  Odeon  refused  it  also,  but  Lireux, 
the  Director,  eagerly  accepted  it,  and  announced  its  early  ap- 
pearance in  the  Odeon,  as  a  set-off  to  Victor  Hugo's  Burgraves, 
which  had  just  failed  signally  in  the  Theatre- Frangais.  Victor 
Hugo,  in  fact,  was  just  at  this  time  under  a  very  dark  cloud. 
His  marked  attachment  to  the  court  had  alienated  his  jealous 
friends,  the  Liberals ;  but,  what  was  worse,  the  general  public, 
disgusted  with  such  hideous  creations  as  Lucrecia  Borgia,  and 
The  Tower  de  Nesle,  had  become  heartily  sick  of  all  dramas  of 
the  Middle  Ages.  A  strong  party,  therefore,  hailed  with  pleas- 
ure the  advent  of  a  poet  who  could  be  opposed  with  some 
probability  of  success  to  the  great  autocrat  of  the  romantic 
school.  All  Paris  spoke  of  the  new  tragedy ;  and  long  before 
its  representation  all  theatre-goers,  the  students  particularly, 
were  sharply  divided  into  two  great  parties  :  the  Hugolaters  and 
the  Ponsardists.  Lucrece  was  acted  in  April,  1843,  with  great 
success,  and  fully  justified  all  the  expectations  formed  of  the 
author.  The  simple  and  familiar  subject,  the  clear  and  vigor- 
ous tracing  of  character,  the  occasionally  Corneillian  ring  of  the 
versification,  completely  concealed  the  tinge  of  romanticism, 
and  seemed  to  inaugurate  a  return  to  the  great  masters  of  the 
seventeenth  century.  It  was  crowned  by  the  French  Academy, 
and  became  one  of  Rachel's  favorite  plays  in  the  stirring  spring- 
time of  1848.  But,  in  spite  of  its  great  success,  towards  which 
many  causes  not  likely  to  occur  again  had  powerfully  con- 
tributed, Lucrece  was  by  no  means  a  masterpiece  of  dramatic 
composition. 

His  next  tragedy,  in  fact,  Agnes  de  Meranie,  a  careful  study 
of  the  Middle  Ages  which  cost  him  three  years'  labor,  did  not 
come  .up  to  what  was  generally  expected  from  the  author  of 
Lucrece.  It  was  really  a  better  play,  but  there  was  no  longer  a 
Victor  Hugo  to  conquer.  And  even  in  1850,  when  Lamartine's 
Girondins  had  familiarized,  if  not  popularized,  revolutionary 
sentiments,  Ponsard's  Charlotte  Corday,  a  five-act  tragedy  of 
romantic  tendency,  though  full  of  noble  ideas  expressed  in 
powerful  and  appropriate  language,  comparatively  failed,  prob- 


PONSARD.  ii^ 

ably  for  want  of  sufficient  incident  and  interesting  dramatic 
situations.  As  a  wit  of  the  time  said :  it  was  an  Athenian 
patriot  declaiming  the  history  of  the  Girondins.  Horace  and 
Lydia,  in  one  act,  a  sensuous  trifle  from  the  antique,  played 
by  Rachel,  was  pretty  well  received,  but  even  Gounod's  music 
did  not  save  Ulysses,  and  Homer,  though  a  good  poem,  hardly 
compares  favorably  with  Chenier's  lines  on  the  same  sub- 
ject. 

In  1852,  after  the  Coup  d'etat,  Ponsard's  appointment  as 
librarian  to  the  Senate,  excited  such  sharp  comments  from  the 
Steele  that  he  not  only  resigned  his  position — but  even  fought  a 
duel  on  the  subject  with  Taxile  Delord.  He  did  better.  He 
wrote  a  drama,  his  best,  in  five  acts.  Honor  and  Money,  a  fine 
satire  on  the  pursuit  of  riches  and  office  at  the  expense  of 
honesty.  Refused  at  the  Theatre- Frangais  (1853),  it  achieved 
a  most  brilliant  success  at  the  Odcon.  It  opened  the  door  of 
the  French  Academy  to  its  author,  and  ten  years  afterwards 
was  put  on  the  repertory  of  the  Theatre- Frangais  as  one  of  its 
standard  plays. 

Of  Ponsard's  remaining  plays,  La  Bourse,  Ce  qui  plait  aux 
Femmes,  a.nd  Le  Lion  Amoureux ,  it  must  be  enough  to  say  that 
the  first  did'  not  reach  the  merit  of  Honor  and  Motiey,  nor  the 
third  that  of  Charlotte  Corday,  and  that  the  second  was  treated 
coldly  by  the  public,  and  severely  by  the  respectable  portion 
of  the  press.  As  for  the  Galileo,  spoken  of  so  fully  by  Legouve, 
though  a  sketch  rather  than  a  finished  work,  it  contains  one 
passage,  the  famous  description  of  the  starry  host,  meritorious 
enough  to  insure  its  being  henceforth  included  in  every  collec- 
tion of  the  gems  of  French  literature. 

Never  very  strong,  he  died  before  he  had  completed  his  fifty- 
fourth  year,  and  was  buried  at  Vienne,  where  his  fellow-citizens 
have  erected  a  bronze  statue  to  his  memory  in  the  chief  square 
of  the  city. 

Ponsard,  sometimes  called  in  derision  the  chief  of  the  com- 

mon  sense  school,  was  chief  of  no  school  at  all,  but  a  poet  of 

some  originality,  conscientious,  independent  and  industrious. 

A  little  more  life  and  movement  infused  into  his  action,  and  a 

29  W 


338  NOTES. 

little  more  firmness  into  his  style,  would  have  perhaps  raised 
him  to  the  first  class  of  dramatic  authors. 

Note  ^^y^  —  GALILEO  —page  134. 

Galileo  Galilei  (i  564-1642),  best  known  by  his  Christian 
name,  the  founder  of  experimental  philosophy,  born  in  Pisa,  of 
a  noble  but  reduced  Florentine  family,  showed  from  his  earliest 
years  a  singular  aptitude  for  mechanical  inventions.  His  father, 
embarrassed  with  the  care  of  a  numerous  family,  gave  him  the 
best  education  he  was  able,  and  GaHleo  devoted  himself  so 
closely  to  the  study  of  the  great  classical  authors  as  to  secure 
for  his  pen  an  elegance  and  clearness  of  style  that  afterwards 
made  his  writings  models  of  excellence.  Well  acquainted  with 
music  too  and  drawing,  he  had  moreover  often,  in  his  academic 
disputes,  revealed  an  independent  spirit  unwilling  to  receive 
upon  trust  any  explanation  of  physical  facts  that  did  not  stand 
the  crucial  test  of  actual  experiment.  Thus  mentally  equipped, 
he  was  sent,  in  his  eighteenth  year,  to  Pisa  by  his  father  to  study 
medicine. 

Entering  the  Cathedral  one  morning,  he  remarked  that  the 
great  bronze  chandelier,  suspended  by  a  long  chain  from  the 
ceiling,  was  swinging  slowly  backwards  and  forwards  in  very 
small  arcs.  At  first  he  paid  but  little  attention  to  the  matter, 
but  half  an  hour  afterwards,  noticing  that  the  oscillation  still 
continued,  he  began  to  observe  it  with  some  curiosity,  testing 
its  velocity  by  the  beat  of  his  own  pulse.  One  fact  soon  struck 
his  keen  eye  —  each  vibration,  whether  backwards  or  forwards, 
was  performed  in  exactly  the  same  space  of  time.  Here  was  a 
discovery  !  With  some  slight  power  to  overcome  friction  and 
the  resistance  of  the  air,  would  not  such  a  swinging  weight  prove 
a  perfect  time-measurer  ?  Tested  and  confirmed  by  numerous 
experiments,  the  idea  never  left  his  memory.  He  suggested  it 
to  physicians  who  wished  to  count  the  pulses  of  their  patients, 
and  fifty  years  later  he  employed  it  in  constructing  his  astro- 
nomical clock.  It  is  to  Galileo,  therefore,  that  we  must,  award 
the  honor  of  the  first  pendulum  idea,  though  it  must  be  acknowl- 
edged at  the  same  time  that  it  was  not  until  fourteen  years  after 


GALILEO.  339 

his  death  that  its  application  was  broiij^ht  to  absolute  perfection 
by  Huygens,  the  celebrated  Dutch  philosopher. 

Though  still  studying  medicine,  his  tastes  decidedly  vlisposed 
him  to  mathematics,  and  more  particularly  to  experimental 
physics ;  he  mastered  Euclid,  and,  reading  of  Archimedes's 
famous  plan  for  detecting  the  loss  in  weight  of  bodies  immersed 
in  water,  he  invented  what  is  known  as  the  hydrostatic  balance 
to  ascertain  the  specific  gravity  of  substances  in  general.  These 
successes,  and  others  of  the  kind,  together  with  his  bold  and 
original  mode  of  discussing  physical  investigations,  coming  to 
the  notice  of  the  Grand  Duke,  Ferdinand  Dei  Medici,  Galileo, 
in  the  twenty-fifth  year  of  his  age,  received  the  appointment  of 
professor  of  mathematics  in  the  university  of  Pisa. 

At  this  time,  as  for  many  a  preceding  century,  the  doctrines 
of  Aristotle  regarding  the  properties  of  matter  prevailed  all  ovef 
Europe,  though  Lionardo  Da  Vinci,  Nizzoli,  and  others  had 
begun  to  shake  their  authority.  One  of  these  doctrines  held 
that  heavy  bodies  fall  more  rapidly  than  light  bodies ;  that  is, 
if  a  block  of  stone  and  a  pebble  were  thrown  off  a  high  wall  at 
the  same  moment,  the  block  would  be  the  first  to  reach  the 
ground.  Galileo  denied  this,  asserting  that  all  bodies,  light  or 
heavy,  _/^//  to  the  earth  with  the  same  velocity  in  vacuo^  their 
actual  difference  in  velocity  being  due  altogether  to  the  unequal 
resistance  of  the  air.  He  proved  the  truth  of  his  position  by 
dropping  unequal  weights  from  the  summit  of  the  Leaning 
Tower,  in  the  presence  of  immense  crowds  of  spectators.  This 
discovery  of  Galileo's  is  the  germ  of  the  theory  of  universal 
gravitation  afterwards  so  fully  developed  by  Sir  Isaac  Newton. 

Receiving  little  more  than  a  hundred  crowns  a  year  at  Pisa, 
and  being  soon  obliged  by  the  death  of  his  father  to  support  the 
family,  the  young  philosopher  was  very  glad  to  hear  of  his  being 
appointed  by  the  Republic  of  Venice  to  the  far  more  lucrative 
position  of  professor  of  mathematics  at  the  university  of  Padua. 
Another  reason  too  had  made  him  desirous  of  leaving  Tuscany. 
The  Aristotelians  —  mostly  churchmen,  the  laymen  generally 
preferring  arms  to  books  —  wedded  to  long  estabhshed  and 
plausible  opinions,  were  rather  puzzled  than  convinced  by  the 


340  NOTES, 

young  professor's  experiments,  and  readily  referred  their  success 
to  some  unknown  causcwhich  they  could  not  at  the  moment 
explain.  Galileo,  indignant  that  they  did  not  instantly  embrace 
opinions  as  clear  to  himself  as  the  sunlight,  too  often  reproached 
their  obstinacy  with  more  zeal  than  prudence.  Their  replies, 
sometimes  hasty,  angry,  illogical,  like  most  replies  of  wounded 
pride,  did  not  mend  matters.  But  for  their  pride  he  took  no 
consideration ;  he  would  make  no  allowance  for  a  prejudice  of 
the  civilized  world  that  had  its  root  in  a  philosophy  taught  three 
hundred  years  before  the  Christian  era.  Here  he  was  certainly 
unwise  ;  it  was  this  domineering  pride  of  intellect,  so  jealous  of 
homage,  so  impatient  of  contradiction,  so  unable  to  wait  for  the 
sure  moment  of  its  ultimate  triumph,  that  afterwards  led  him 
into  trouble  and  difficulties  which  a  little  prudence  might  have 
easily  avoided.  "  Forgetting,"  as  Sir  David  Brewster  says, 
"that  knowledge  is  progressive,  and  that  the  errors  of  one 
generation  are  replaced  by  the  discoveries  of  the  next,  he  did 
not  anticipate  that  his  own  speculations  might  one  day  incur 
censure.  Galileo,  therefore,  should  have  made  allowance  for 
the  prejudices  and  ignorance  of  his  opponents.  Men  are  not 
necessarily  obstinate  because  they  cleave  to  deeply-rooted  and 
venerable  errors,  nor  are  they  absolutely  dull  when  they  are 
long  in  understanding  and  slow  in  embracing  newly-discovered 
truths." 

In  Padua,  where  his  reputation  had  preceded  him,  he  was  so 
well  received  (1593)  that  he  spent  eighteen  years  there,  teaching 
with  great  success,  writing  for  his  pupils  treatises  on  Dialling, 
Mechanics,  Astronomy,  and  even  Fortification,  as  was  the  custom 
with  professors  of  Mathematics  in  those  days.  He  invented  an 
imperfect  tkennometer  (the  modern  instrument,  invented  by 
Drebbel,  a  Holland  philosopher,  dates  twenty  years  later),  the 
proportional  compasses,  and  considerably  increased  the  power 
of  magnets.  In  1609  he  made  the  astronomical  discoveries 
that  have  rendered  his  name  immortal.  Hearing  that  a  Hol- 
land optician  had  presented  to  Count  Maurice  of  Nassau  an 
instrument  by  which  distant  objects  were  seen  with  great  dis- 
tinctness, he  set  himself  immediately  to  work,  experimenting  on 


GALILEO,  341 

lenses  of  different  refractive  powers,  until  at  last  he  discovered 
the  telescope.  His  first  instrument,  which  he  presented  to  the 
Doge  of  Venice,  magnified  only  four  times,  but  the  Doge  was 
so  proud  of  the  gift  that  he  appointed  Gahlco  professor  for  hfe 
with  a  yearly  salary  of  a  thousand  florins.  His  second  instru- 
ment magnified  eight  times,  but  the  third,  constructed  with  great 
pains  and  skill,  magnified  thirty  times.  By  means  of  this  tele- 
scope, still  preserved  in  Florence,  mounted  so  that  it  could  be 
directed  towards  the  sky,  Galileo  was  soon  revelling  in  sights 
never  before  granted  to  human  visi'^n. 

He  saw  the  Moon  bristling  with  lofty  mountains,  furrowed 
with  tremendous  chasms,  and  always  presenting  the  same  sur- 
face to  the  earth  ;  he  explained  her  earthshine,  and  noticed  her 
librations,  without  being  able  to  understand  them.  He  saw 
Venus,  crescent  like  the  Moon,  and  presenting  similar  phases. 
He  saw  Jupiter's  four  satellites,  noticed  their  occultations,  and 
soon  perceived  their  practical  importance  in  determining  longi- 
tudes at  sea.  He  saw  Saturn  and  his  "  handles,"  which  it  was 
reserved  for  Huygens  to  afterwards  show  to  be  rings.  He  re- 
solved the  nebulae  and  the  Milky  Way  into  myriads  of  stars, 
and  discovered  the  spots  on  the  sun,  though  in  this  last  dis- 
covery he  is  said  to  have  been  anticipated  by  the  Jesuit 
Scheiner. 

The  announcement  of  all  these  astounding  wonders  in  the 
numbers  of  a  serial,  written  by  himself,  and  called  the  Nuncius 
Sidereus  (Starry  Herald),  produced,  as  may  be  well  supposed, 
indescribable  excitement  in  the  learned  world.  Every  senti- 
ment was  thoroughly  aroused,  from  exuberant  joy  to  scathing 
scorn,  from  the  enthusiasm  of  faith  to  the  ridicule  of  unbelief. 
Kepler  says  he  was  so  confounded  by  the  news  of  Jupiter's 
satellites  that  for  some  time  he  could  neither  speak  nor  listen. 

In  161 1  Galileo  visited  Rome  where  he  was  received  with  the 
greatest  honor.  Pope,  Cardinals,  Princes  and  Professors  alike 
united  in  showing  him  their  admiration,  and  received  him  "  as 
if  one  of  his  own  starry  wonders  had  dropped  from  the  sky." 
His  best  telescope,  erected  in  the  gardens  of  Cardinal  Bandini, 
was  the  object  of  universal  admiration.  All  Rome  flocked  to 
29* 


342  NOTES. 

gaze  on  the  unspeakable  prodigies  never  before  revealed  tc 
mortal  ken.  Cardinal  Bellarmine,  Librarian  of  the  Vatican, 
unwilling  to  trust  his  senses,  wrote  to  the  Astronomical  Acad- 
emy, directed  by  the  Jesuits,  to  ascertain  if  the  facts  were  as  al- 
leged. Father  Clavius,  so  celebrated  for  his  labors  in  the  refor- 
mation of  the  Calendar,  wrote  in  reply  that  the  facts  were 
unquestionable,  adding  "these  things  being  so,  astronomers 
must  henceforth  see  that  their  constitution  of  the  heavenly  orbs 
can  be  reconciled  with  these  phenomena."  He.was  immediately 
made  honorary  member  of  the  Lyncean  Academy,  founded  in 
1603  (60  years  before  either  the  French  or  British  Academies  of 
Science),  by  Prince  Cesi,  for  the  study  particularly  of  the  phys- 
ical sciences.  The  name  Lynceaji  (derived  from  lynx')  alluded 
\o  the  keenness  of  sight  required  for  the  proper  study  of  nature. 

In  possession  of  reputation,  wealth,  high  honors,  and  in  the 
prime  of  life,  the  future  days  of  Galileo  now  seemed  destined 
to  prove  a  continuation  of  his  glorious  career  of  startling,  inter- 
esting and  useful  discovery.  Nevertheless  he  soon  found  him- 
self involved  in  trouble  from  which  he  did  not  entirely  escape 
until  the  day  of  his  death.  For  this  we  think  himself  was  most 
to  blame.  He  had  no  doubt  many  violent  and  unreasoning 
enemies,  but  his  own  pride  was  the  greatest. 

We  have  no  notion  of  entering  into  the  details  of  this  quarrel ; 
a  general  idea  of  its  nature,  sufficient  for  the  ordinary  reader, 
may  be  compressed  into  a  few  pages,  though  readily  expansible 
into  a  volume. 

In  the  beginning  of  the  seventeenth  century,  the  philosophy 
taught  in  the  great  European  schools  was  mainly  Greek,  Aris- 
totle's works,  though  not  always  implicitly  followed,  being  the 
great  groundwork  of  studies.  The  great  authority  on  Astron- 
omy was  Ptolemy,  a  learned  philosopher,  who  had  flourished 
in  Alexandria  in  tire  second  century.  His  book,  called  the  Al- 
magest, for  1400  years  had  been  a  kind  of  astronomical  bible, 
and  much  of  its  information  regarding  the  heavenly  bodies  was 
wonderfully  accurate.  Ptolemy  had  not  been  a  great  observer 
himself,  but,  by  taking  what  he  considered  the  best  established 
notions  of  the  previous  astronomers  and  combining  them  to« 


GALILEO.  343 

gcthcr  with  great  ingenuity,  he  had  produced  an  astronomical 
system  which  accounted  pretty  well  for  the  movements  of  the 
planets  and  the  eclipses  of  the  moon.  Its  chief  feature  was  the 
motionlcssness  of  the  earth,  around  which  all  the  planets  re- 
volved in  epicycles,  the  sun  itself  not  excepted. 

The  first  serious  blow  struck  at  this  system  had  been  given 
by  a  Polish  priest,  named  Copernicus  (147 3-1 543),  who,  while 
studying  at  Rome  in  1507,  was  astonished  at  the  complications 
of  the  Ptolemaic  system  and  the  little  symmetry  or  order  it  left 
in  the  world.  Revolving  its  chief  features  over  and  over  again 
in  his  mind,  retaining  what  was  incontestable  and  rigidly  ex- 
amining all  the  rest,  he  at  last  hit  on  the  new  system,  called 
after  himself  the  Copernican.  Its  grand  principle  is  :  the  Sun 
is  the  centre  about  which  the  planets  revolve  in  a  spinning 
motion,  the  earth  itself  included.  He  passed  more  than  thirty 
years  of  his  life  in  collecting  proofs  to  establish  the  probability 
if  not  the  correctness  of  his  theory,  but  the  great  work  in  which 
all  these  proofs  were  brought  together  and  which  he  had  dedi- 
cated to  Pope  Paul  III.,  was  not  printed  until  1543,  a  few  days 
before  his  death.  "  From  this  time  till  1616,"  says  Drinkwater, 
"  Copernicus's  theory  was  left  in  the  hands  of  the  mathemati- 
cians and  philosophers,  who  attacked  it  or  defended  it  without 
receiving  either  support  or  molestation  from  ecclesiastical  de- 
crees." This  shows  that  at  the  court  of  Rome  it  was  regarded 
as  a  pure  mathematical  question  with  which  the  doctrines  of  tie 
Church  had  nothing  whatever  to  do.  Copernicus's  principal 
proof  in  support  of  his  theory  was  its  great  simplicity,  though, 
as  he  had  enounced  it,  it  was  still  exceedingly  complicated. 
His  idea  that  the  planets  revolved  in  circles  rendered  many  as- 
tronomical phenomena  almost  impossible  to  be  explained. 

Tycho  Brahe  of  Denmark  (i 546-1601),  rejecting  the  Coper- 
nican system  on  these  and  other  grounds,  started  what  has  been 
called  the  Tychonic  system,  making  the  Earth  to  be  the  centre 
around  which  the  Sun,  Mercury,  and  Venus  moved,  while  the 
Sun  itself  was  the  centre  of  the  revolutions  of  the  other  planets. 
Something  was  to  be  said  even  in  favor  of  this  system,  for  though 
Copernicus  had  been  a  very  profound  philosopher,  Brahe  had 


344  NOTES. 

been  by  far  a  more  rigid  and  successful  observer.  But  Keple* 
(1571-1630),  a  Wurtemburg  mathematician  who  had  assisted 
'Brahe  in  his  observations,  and  continued  to  work  at  them  with 
incredible  labor,  by  his  famous  Laws,  completely  destroyed  the 
Tychonic  system,  and  rendered  the  brilliant  guess  of  Copernicus 
more  plausible  than  ever.  This  plausibility  had  been  converted 
into  an  almost  irresistible  probability  by  Galileo's  recent  tele- 
scopic discoveries,  among  others  the  phases  of  Venus  and  espe- 
cially that  of  the  miniature  solar  system,  Jupiter  with  his  Satel- 
lites. Strange  to  say,  however,  the  strength  of  this  last  analogy 
was  lost  altogether  on  Galileo,  whose  principal  argument  for  the 
spinning  motion  of  the  earth  was  founded  on  the  flux  and  the 
reflux  of  the  tides,  phenomena  with  which  it  has  not  the  slight- 
est relation. 

.  Regardless  of  its  novelty  and  of  its  opposition  to  the  testimony 
of  our  senses,  the  Copernican  system,  as  understood  by  Galileo, 
was  exceedingly  difficult  of  rational  demonstration,  and  natu- 
rally found  general  disfavor.  Hume  says,  "  Lord  Bacon  rejected 
it  with  positive  disdain."  Menzel  says,  "  the  Wurtemburg  Cal- 
vinists  persecuted  Kepler  so  for  this  work  that  he  was  obliged 
to  fly  to  Vienna,  where  the  Jesuits,  who  knew  how  to  value  sci- 
entific knowledge,  permitted  him  to  remain  notwithstanding  his 
Lutheran  principles."  It  is  well  known  that  Luther  and  Me- 
lancthon  opposed  Copernican  ideas  as  being  contrary  to  Scrip- 
ture. The  truth  is  that  neither  Galileo  nor  any  one  else  was 
able  at  that  day  to  give  an  incontrovertible  reason  to  induce 
people  to  disbeheve  their  senses.  Even  to-day  we  have  no 
direct  proof  of  the  earth's  rotation,  as  anybody  reading  Chapter 
6,  Book  20  of  Arago's  Astronomy  can  easily  discover.  Fou- 
cault's  pendulum  experiment  and  gyroscope  experiment  from 
which  so  much  was  expected  for  some  time,  have  proved  to  be 
far  from  successful.  And  of  the  earth's  revolution  around  the 
sun  no  positive  proof  could  be  given  before  Roemer  had  meas- 
ured the  velocity  of  light  (1675),  ^^id  Bradley  (1727)  had  cal- 
culated the  aberration  of  the  celestial  bodies.  Our  best  argu- 
ment to-day  in  favor  of  the  Copernican  theory  is  that,  so  far,  it 
has  shown  itself  readily  reconcilable  with  every  astronomical 


GALILEO.  345 

phenomenon.  But,  as  two  centuries  and  a  half  ago  most  of 
these  phenomena,  eclipses,  forward  and  retrograde  movements 
of  planets,  etc.,  were  pretty  well  explained  by  the  Ptolemaic 
system,  and  as  Newton's  theory  of  universal  gravitation  v/as  not 
heard  of  for  half  a  century  later,  we  need  not  be  at  all  surprised 
that  in  those  days  many  learned  philosophers  combated  the 
Copernican  theory  altogether  as  an  unfounded  assumption,  and 
that  even  its  most  enlightened  admirers  continued  f6r  a  long 
time  to  regard  it  as  a  brilliant  induction  rather  than  a  demon- 
strated truth. 

And  still  less  may  we  be  surprised  if  preachers,  full  of  intem- 
perate zeal  and  by  no  means  qualified  by  severe  study  for  seeing 
the  real  difficulties  of  the  question,  thought  proper  to  fling  as- 
persions from  the  pulpit  on  the  sacrilege  of  sending  the  world 
spinning  in  wide  space  around  the  sun.  Among  others,  the 
Dominican  friar  Caccini  made  himself  particularly  remarkable 
in  these  attacks  by  his  famous  text :  Viri  Galilaei,  quid  statis 
aspicientes  in  coelujn  ?  (ye  Gaiilea?ts,  why  stand  ye  looking  up 
to  heaven  ?)  But  such  exhibitions  found  no  sympathy  in  Rome. 
Caccini  was  severely  rebuked  by  his  superior.  Castelli,  Gal- 
ileo's pupil  and  friend,  writing  from  Rome,  says  :  "I  have  not 
spoken  to  any  one  who  does  not  deem  it  a  great  impertinence 
in  preachers  to  mount  their  pulpits  to  treat  of  such  high  pro- 
fessor-like matters  before  women  and  a  congregation  where 
there  are  so  few  to  understand  them."  This  same  Castelli,  when 
receiving  instructions  from  the  Provost  in  1613  on  his  appoint- 
ment to  the  mathematical  chair  in  Pisa,  was  expressly  allowed 
to  teach  the  new  opinion  as  probable,  but  not  as  the  declared 
opinion  of  the  school. 

Galileo,  however,  would  be  satisfied  by  no  such  restriction. 
Considering  the  doctrine  as  already  demonstrated,  he  wrote  a 
letter  to  Christina,  the  Dowager  Duchess  of  Tuscany,  in  which 
he  undertook  to  prove  theologically  and  by  arguments  drawn 
from  the  Fathers  that  the  Holy  Scriptures  could  be  easily  recon- 
ciled with  the  new  doctrines.  Here  he  made  his  first  mistake. 
He  should  not,  as  his  friend  Cardinal  Barberini,  afterwards 
Pope  Urban  VHL,  wrote  to  him,  "  have  travelled  out  of  the 


34^  NOTES. 

limits  of  mathematics  and  physics,  but  should  confine  himself 
to  such  reasonings  as  Ptolemy  and  Copernicus  had  used,  be- 
cause, as  to  declaring  the  views  of  Scripture,  theologians,  au- 
thorized and  approved,  maintain  that  to  be  their  own  particular 
province."  The  Dominicans,  getting  hold  of  this  letter,  laid 
it  before  the  Inquisition,  but  the  case  was  soon  dismissed,  with 
the  injunction  that  if  Galileo  pursued  the  course  advised,  namely, 
that  of  speaking  as  a  mathematician,  he  would  be  put  to  no 
farther  trouble.  This  very  year,  in  fact,  1615,  lectures  were  de- 
livered in  the  Jesuit's  College  at  Rome  in  support  of  the  Coper- 
nican  doctrine,  and  in  the  Pope's  own  university,  the  Sapienza, 
another  Jesuit  was  delivering  similar  lectures.  A  contemporary 
writer  says  that  Cardinal  Bellarmine  himself,  the  famous  Jesuit, 
"  never  questioned  the  truth  of  Galileo's  doctrine  but  only  the 
prudence  of  his  manner  of  propounding  it."  "Your  affairs," 
writes  another  friendly  Jesuit,  "  are  now  all  settled  ;  there  will  be 
no  further  difficulty  about  your  writing  on  the  Copernican  sys- 
tem, as  a  mathematician  and  by  way  of  hypothesis."  This  was 
the  issue  of  his  first  trouble  with  the  Inquisition. 

But  the  great  scientist  was  "  too  bad  a  theologian,  and  too 
good  an  astronomer"  to  allow  the  grand  theory,  to  him  as  un- 
questionable as  his  own  existence,  to  be  thus  quietly  disposed 
of.  Writing  out  another  elaborate  letter,  he  proceeded  with  it  to 
Rome,  of  his  own  accord,  "  to  learn,"  in  his  own  words,  '*  what 
he  was  to  believe  of  the  Copernican  system."  In  spite,  how- 
ever, of  the  violent  outcries  of  his  enemies,  he  again  experi- 
enced nothing  from  the  Inquisition  but  liberality  and  kindness. 
Conscious  that  the  question  was  an  extremely  difficult  one,  they 
had  a  strong  repugnance  to  have  it  forced  on  them.  "So  far 
as  I  am  concerned  personally,"  Gahleo  writes  to  a  friend,  "  I 
can  return  at  any  moment."  But  he  did  not  return.  "  Do  not 
raise  the  question,"  writes  his  friend  the  Bishop  of  Fermo,  "  lest 
by  assuming  the  attitude  of  defence,  where  no  attack  is  made, 
you  may  excite  the  suspicion  of  something  wrong."  This  sen- 
sible advice  he  would  not  take.  Determined  to  force  a  decision 
in  accordance  with  his  views,  his  advocate.  Cardinal  Orsinj, 
seems  to  have  pressed  the  matter  just  as  unwisely  and  as  un- 


GALILEO.  347 

seasonably.  The  consequence  is  well  known.  Such  persist- 
ence drove  the  angry  Cardinals  into  an  immediate  condem- 
nation of  the  system,  not,  however,  as  either  true  or  untrue 
in  itself,  but  as  appearing  for  the  present  to  be  "  contrary  to 
the  Sacred  Scripture."  That  this  meant,  not  "heretical"  in 
the  proper  sense  of  the  term,  but  "  untenable  as  an  absolute  and 
unqualified  truth,"  can  easily  be  seen  from  Bellarmine's  own 
words.  "As  soon,"  said  the  Cardinal,  "as  a  demonstration 
shall  be  found  to  establish  the  earth's  motion,  it  will  be  proper 
to  interpret  the  Sacred  Scriptures  otherwise  than  they  have  been 
hitherto  interpreted  in  those  passages  where  mention  is  made 
of  the  stability  of  the  earth  and  the  movements  of  the  heavens." 
In  a  letter  to  a  friend  on  the  following  day,  Galileo  says  :  "  The 
result,  however,  has  not  been  favorable  to  my  enemies,  the  doc- 
trine of  Copernicus  not  having  been  declared  heretical,  but 
contrary  to  Sacred  Scripture." 

For  peace  sake,  therefore,  to  put  a  stop  to  loud  outcries  and 
in  deference  to  honest  but  weak  minds,  the  Inquisition  thought 
proper  to  reduce  the  belligerent  philosopher  to  silence.  Not  to 
absolute  silence,  however,  but  he  was  forbidden  to  put  forward 
his  doctrine  as  grounded  on  absolute  and  irrefragable  truth.  As 
Newcomb  says  in  his  late  Astronomy^  "  the  Inquisition  prohibited 
the  promulgation  of  the  new  doctrines  as  absolute  truths,  but 
were  perfectly  willing  that  they  should  be  used  as  hypotheses, 
and  rather  encouraged  men  of  science  in  the  idea  of  investigat- 
ing the  interesting  mathematical  problems  to  which  the  expla- 
nation of  the  celestial  motions  by  the  Copernican  system  might 
give  rise.  The  only  restriction  was  that  they  must  stop  short  of 
asserting  or  arguing  the  hypotheses  to  be  a  reality."  In  enjoin- 
ing this  restriction,  they  dispensed  with  every  circumstance  that 
might  offend  Galileo's  pride.  Bellarmine  gave  him  a  certificate 
assuring  him  that  the  Inquisition  did  not  visit  him  with  thcii 
displeasure  but  left  him  in  the  enjoyment  of  his  opinions,  only 
he  must  not  propound  them  openly  as  undoubted  truths.  He 
ivas  then  admitted  to  a  long  and  friendly  interview  with  the 
Pope,  and  dismissed  with  every  demonstration  of  favor  and 
regard.     Such  was  the  result  of  the  Inquisition's  second  inquir- 


348  NOTES. 

ing  into  Galileo's  doctrine  and  conduct.  It  was  brought  orl  him- 
self, altogether  by  his  attempts,  again^  the  advice  of  his  best 
friends,  to  have  the  Scripture  explained  in  his  own  way. 

During  this  very  same  year,  1616,  the  chair  of  astronomy  in 
the  Pope's  own  university  of  Bologna  was  offered  to  Kepler,  the 
illustrious  Lutheran  astronomer,  who  by  this  time  had  acquired 
great  renown,  but  who  unfortunately  always  suffered  from 
straitened  circumstances.  The  apparent  inconsistency  of  offer- 
ing such  an  appointment  to  Kepler  who  had  done  more  towards 
estabhshing  the  Copernican  system  than  even  Galileo  himself, 
may  be  explained  by  the  words  of  Fabbroni,  the  Tuscan  am- 
bassador at  that  time,  in  his  letter  to  the  Grand  Duke.  "  Gali- 
leo," says  he,  "  is  heated  in  his  opinions.  —  He  is  passionate  in 
this  affair  —  and  will  remain  so,  as  he  has  hitherto  done,  bring- 
ing himself  and  every  one  else  who  will  be  fool  enough  to  second 
his  views  or  be  persuaded  by  him,  into  danger. —  He  makes 
more  account  of  his  own  opinion  than  of  that  of  any  of  his 
friends.  Cardinal  del  Monte,  myself  as  far  as  lay  in  my  power, 
and  many  Cardinals  of  the  Inquisition  have  tried  to  persuade 
him  to  keep  himself  quiet  and  not  to  agitate  this  affair,  but  rather, 
if  he  has  a  mind  to  hold  this  opinion,  to  hold  it  in  peace,  and 
not  to  make  such  efforts  to  draw  others  over  to  his  way  of 
thinking." 

Gahleo,  however,  in  spite  of  his  indignation  and  love  of  argu- 
ment, seems  to  have  nominally  observed  his  promise  pretty  well 
for  fifteen  or  sixteen  years.  He  returns  to  Florence  where,  as 
Mathematician  Extraordinary  to  the  Grand  Duke,  with  a  liberal 
salary  and  only  nominal  duties,  he  is  treated  with  the  highest 
consideration.  Cardinal  Barberini  writes  verses  in  his  honor. 
Time  advances.  Many  troubles  distract  the  world.  The  Thirty 
Years'  War  breaks  out  in  Germany  and  rages  with  great  fury. 
Pope  Paul  V.  dies  and  is  succeeded  by  Gregory  XV.,  the  founder 
of  the  Propaganda.  Gregory  dies  in  his  turn,  and  Barberini, 
Galileo's  friend,  is  declared  Pope,  under  the  name  of  Urban 
VIII.  Copernicanism  is  once  more  in  the  ascendant.  Castelli, 
Galileo's  pupil,  is  made  the  Pope's  mathematician ;  Berulle,  an 
avowed  Copernican,  is  raised  to  the  dignity  of  Cardinal ;  Gall 


GALILEO.  349 

eo  himself,  goinfj  to  Rome  to  offer  his  confj^ratulations,  is  re- 
reived  with  the  utmost  cordiality  and  granted  a  life  pension  of 
loo  crowns,  with  one  of  60  crowns  for  his  son.  The  letter  which 
he  brings  back  from  Urban  to  the  Grand  Duke  concludes  as 
follows :  "  We  find  in  him  not  only  literary  distinction  but 
the  love  of  piety.  And  we  further  signify  that  every  benefit 
which  you  will  confer  on  him,  imitating  and  even  surpassing 
your  father's  liberality,  will  conduce  to  our  gratification."  In  a 
conversation  with  Campanella  the  Pope  uses  these  words :  "  It 
was  never  our  intention  to  condemn  the  Copernican  system, 
and,  if  it  had  depended  upon  us,  the  decree  of  1616  would  never 
have  been  made."  In  one  sense  the  time  seemed  to  have  come 
at  last  for  striking  the  grand  blow  ;  in  another  sense  that  time 
would  have  seemed  further  off  than  ever.  A  true  son  of  the 
Church  would  hardly  seek  to  embarrass  her  when  Gustavus 
Adolphus  was  carrying  everything  before  him  in  Germany ;  or- 
dinary gratitude  would  have  hesitated  before  heaping  additional 
troubles  and  perplexities  upon  one's  friend  and  benefactor. 
But  "  science  "  would  not  wait.  The  Four  Days'  Dialogues,  a 
work  at  which  Galileo  had  been  carefully  laboring  for  the  last 
fifteen  or  sixteen  years  could  be  postponed  no  longer.  The  book 
did  not  pretend  to  be  a  learned  treatise  written  exclusively  for 
philosophers,  but  a  series  of  conversations  on  astronomy,  written 
in  a  popular  but  elegant  and  witty  style,  between  a  Florentine, 
a  Venetian,  and  a  stolid,  stupid  and  rather  ridiculous  personage 
called  Simpiicius.  The  different  systems  are  discussed,  and  all 
kinds  of  arguments,  scriptural  and  otherwise,  are  brought  for- 
ward to  exalt  the  Copernican  system  and  to  crush  the  Ptolemaic. 
The  Florentine  and  the  Venetian  are  elegant  gentlemen  of  the 
world,  accomplished  scholars,  unprejudiced  judges,  perfect 
reasoners,  able  to  set  their  own  arguments  in  the  strongest 
light,  but  always  ready  to  do  justice  to  an  opponent's  reasons, 
and  ever  open  to  conviction.  Simpiicius,  on  the  contrary,  is  a 
bookish,  conceited,  old  pedant,  crammed  with  Aristotle,  looking 
at  everything  through  scholastic  spectacles,  unable  to  tell  a 
good  argument  from  a  bad  one,  and  losing  his  temper  ?.X  every 
30 


3  so  NOTES. 

little  joke.     The  Copernicans,  of  course,  obtain  a  glorious  vic- 
tory. 

Let  Sir  David  Brewster  tell  this  part  of  the  story  : 

But  Galileo  was  bound  to  the  Romish  hierarchy  by  still  stronger  ties.  His  sor 
and  himself  were  pensioners  of  the  Church,  and,  having  accepted  its  alms,  they  owed 
it,  at  least,  a  decent  and  respectful  allegiance.  The  pension  thus  given  by  Urban 
was  not  a  remuneration  which  sovereigns  sometimes  award  to  the  services  of  theif 
subjects.  Galileo  was  a  foreigner  at  Rome.  The  sovereign  of  the  papal  state  owed 
him  no  obligation;  and  hence  we  must  regard  the  pension  of  Galileo  as  a  donation 
from  the  Roman  Pontiff  to  science  itself,  and  as  a  declaration  to  the  Christian  world 
that  Religion  was  not  jealous  of  Philosophy,  and  that  the  Church  of  Rome  was 
willing  to  respect  and  foster  even  the  genius  of  its  enemies. 

Galileo  viewed  all  these  circumstances  in  a  different  light.  He  resolved  to  com- 
pose a  work  in  which  the  Copernican  system  should  be  demonstrated;  but  he 
had  not  the  courage  to  do  it  in  a  direct  and  open  manner.  He  adopted  the  plan  of 
discussing  the  subject  in  a  dialogue  between  three  speakers,  in  the  hope  of  eluding 
by  this  artifice  the  censure  of  the  Church.  This  work  was  completed  in  1630,  but, 
owing  to  some  difficulties  in  obtaining  license  to  print  it,  it  was  not  published  till 
1632. 

In  obtaining  this  license  Galileo  exhibited  considerable  address,  and  his  memory 
has  not  escaped  the  imputation  of  having  acted  unfairly,  and  of  having  involved  his 
personal  friends  in  the  consequences  of  his  imprudence. 

The  situation  of  Master  of  the  Palace  was,  fortunately  for  Galileo's  designs,  filled 
by  Niccolo  Riccardi,a  friend  and  pupil  of  his  own.  This  officer  was  a  sort  of  censor 
of  new  publications,  and,  when  he  was  applied  to  on  the  subject  of  printing  his  work, 
Galileo  soon  found  that  attempts  had  been  made  to  thwart  his  views.  He  instantly 
set  off  for  Rome  and  had  an  interview  with  his  friend,  who  was  in  every  respect 
anxious  to  oblige  him.  Riccardi  examined  the  manuscript,  pointed  out  some  incau- 
tious expressions  which  he  considered  it  necessary  to  erase,  and  returned  it  with  his 
written  approbation,  on  the  understanding  that  the  alterations  he  suggested  should 
be  made.  Dreading  to  remain  in  Rome  during  the  unhealthy  season  which  was  fast 
approaching,  Galileo  returned  to  Florence,  with  the  intention  of  completing  the  in- 
dex and  dedication,  and  of  sending  the  manuscript  to  Rome,  to  be  printed  under  the 
care  of  Prince  Cesi  (the  founder  of  the  Lyncean  Society).  The  death  of  that  dis- 
tinguished individual,  in  August,  1630,  frustrated  Galileo's  plan,  and  he  applied  for 
leave  to  have  the  book  printed  in  Florence.  Riccardi  was  at  first  desirous  of  ex- 
'amining  the  manuscript  again;  but,  after  inspecting  only  the  beginning  and  the  end  of 
it,  he  gave  Galileo  leave  to  print  it  wherever  he  chose,  provided  it  bore  the  license  of 
the  Inquisitor-General  of  Florence,  and  one  or  two  other  persons  whom  he  named. — 
By  the  publication  of  such  a  work  the  dogmas  of  the  Catholic  faith  had  been  brought 
into  direct  collision  with  the  deductions  of  science.  The  leader  of  the  philosophic 
band  had  broken  the  most  solemn  armistice  with  the  Inquisition  ;  he  had  rf  nounced 
the  ties  of  gratitude  which  bound  him  to  the  Pontiff;  and  Urban  was  thus  compelled 
to  intrench  himself  in  a  position  to  which  he  had  been  driven  by  his  opponents. 

Pope  Urban  VIII.,  attached  though  he  had  been  to  Galileo,  never  once  hesitated 
respecting  the  line  of  conduct  which  he  felt  himself  bound  to  pursue.     His  mind  was 


GALILEO.  551 

*evertheless  agitated  with  conflicting  sentiments.  He  entertained  a  sincere  affectioi; 
for  science  and  literature,  and  yet  lie  was  placed  in  the  position  of  their  enemy.  He 
had  been  the  personal  friend  of  Galileo,  and  yet  his  duty  compelled  him  to  become 
his  accuser.  Embarrassing  as  these  feelings  were,  other  considerations  contributed 
to  soothe  him.  He  had  in  his  capacity  of  Cardinal,  opposed  the  first  persecution  of 
Galileo.  He  had,  since  his  elevation  to  the  Pontificate,  traced  an  open  path  for  the 
march  of  Galileo's  discoveries  ;  and  he  had  finally  endeavored  to  bind  the  recusant 
philosopher  by  the  chains  of  kindness  and  gratitude.  All  these  means,  however  nad 
proved  abortive,  and  he  was  now  called  upon  to  support  the  doctrine  to  which  he  haJ 
subscribed  and  administer  the  law  of  which  he  was  the  guardian. 

So  far  Sir  David  Brewster. 

The  excitement  in  the  world  at  large  -and  the  indignation  at 
Rome  in  particular  caused  by  the  appearance  of  such  a  work 
may  be  easily  surmised.  His  enemies  were  delighted.  An 
immense  number  of  inferior  minds,  the  blind  devotees  of  the 
Aristotelian  style  of  teaching,  many  of  them  too  in  the  eccle- 
siastical orders,  had  been  long  regarding  the  new  discoveries 
with  no  favorable  eye ;  they  considered  them  extremely  dan- 
gerous innovations,  and  were  ready  to  go  to  any  lengths  to 
silence  their  authors  or  propagators.  For  these  the  Hour  of 
triumph  had  now  come.  The  impious  philosopher  had  dug 
a  pit  and  flung  himself  into  it  "Not  contented,"  they  cried, 
"with  attempting  to  undermine  the  Christian  religion  by  means 
of  his  pretended  discoveries  and  blasphemous  arguments,  he 
tries  to  render  the  Holy  Father  a  laughing-stock  in  the  eyes  of 
the  world  by  holding  him  up  as  that  stupid  old  Simplicius  !  " 

Urban,  remembering  he  had  been  always  Galileo'.^  steady 
friend  and  supporter  and  well  known  to  be  a  secret  convert 
to  the  Copernican  system,  was  amazed  and  irritated  as  well  as 
grieved  at  the  glaring  unfairness  of  such  an  attack.  The  storm 
was  too  violent  to  be  resisted.  Galileo  was  hastily  summoned 
to  Rome  to  answer  the  Cardinals  of  the  Inquisition  why  he  had 
broken  his  promise  of  1616.  Why  had  he  fraudulently  obtained 
the  approbation  of  the  Master  of  the  Palace  ?  Why  had  he  not 
informed  him  of  the  solemn  injunction  still  in  existence  ?  He 
had  himself,  he  was  reminded,  appealed  to  that  tribunal  of 
his  own  accord,  he  had  forced  its  decision,  and  had  solemnly 
pledged  himself  to  abide  by  it.  His  word,  therefore,  so  une- 
quivocally given  and  so  shamefully  broken,  they  would  nevei 


352  NOTES. 

trust  again.  The  promise  that  had  been  asked  of  him  only 
'nominally,  as  from  a  man  of  honor,  in  1616,  he  was  now  tc 
swear  with  all  solemnity  to  maintain.  The  doctrine,  which  he 
had  been  allowed  to  examine,  support,  and  to  demonstrate  by 
scientific  arguments,  he  was  now  condemned  to  solemnly  ab- 
jure as  "dangerous,"  and  "heretical,"  not,  of  course,  "hereti- 
cal" in  the  proper  and  generally  accepted  sense  of  the  term 
but  in  its  legal  and  technical  sense,  which,  as  every  lawyer  who 
draws  up  a  document  well  knows,  is  often  very  different  from 
its  ordinary  and  popular  acceptation. 

As  to  heresy  in  its  real  meaning,  Cardinal  Magalotti,  a  rela- 
tion of  Pope  Urban's,  writing  to  Galileo,  says  :  "  It  is  not  in  the 
power  of  the  Inquisition,  nor  even  of  the  Pope  himself,  to  de- 
clare what  is  heretical  or  what  is  not.  Nothing  less  than  an 
CEcumenical  Council  can  make  any  such  declaration." 

That  this  was  Galileo's  own  view  of  the  whole  case  is  evident 
from  the  famous  expression  put  into  his  mouth  by  history,  and 
which  he  is  likely  enough  to  have  uttered,  rising  from  his  knees, 
in  a  voice  loud  enough  to  be  heard  by  the  whole  bench  of  Car- 
dinals : 

"E  PUR  SE  muove!" 

(Singly  my  arguments  may  be  weak,  some  of  them  unintel- 
ligible to  the  world  at  large,  some  of  them  "  dangerous  "  how- 
ever well-intentioned,  many  of  them  long  before  their  time, 
and  therefore  useless.  For  the  present  then  I  readily  abjure 
the  doctrine  of  the  earth's  rotation,  and  for  peace  sake  and  fear 
of  misconstruction  give  up  teaching  it.  Still  —  my  faith  is  un- 
shaken.    Still  —  I  am  as  much  convinced  as  ever.     Still  it 

MOVES  ! ) 

And  that  this  was  the  understanding  of  the  Pope  himself, 
the  Cardinals  and  of  Rome  at  large  is  quite  evident  from  their 
treatment  of  the  "  prisoner." 

Ordered  to  appear  at  Rome,  but  to  take  his  own  time,  he  de- 
voted twenty-five  days  to  accomplish  a  journey  of  a  hundred 
and  fifty  miles.  He  was  entertained,  until  the  trial  came,  at 
the  delightful  palace  of  the  Tuscan  Ambassador,  Niccolini, 
"  whose  kindness,"  according  to  Galileo's  own  words,  "  can* 


GALILEO.  353 

not  be  described."  After  a  delay  of  two  months,  he  was  hpn- 
orably  lodged  in  the  spacious  apartments  of  the  residence  of 
the  Fiscal  of  the  Inquisition.  "  During  the  whole  trial,"  says 
Sir  David  Brewster,  "  he  was  treated  with  the  most  marked 
indulgence;  he  stood  before  his  judges  with  the  recognized  at- 
tributes of  a  sage  ;  though  an  offender  against  the  law  of  which 
they  were  theguardians,  the  highest  respect  was  yielded  to  his 
genius  and  the  kindest  consideration  to  his  infirmities."  The 
penance  inflicted  on  him,  by  way  of  punishment  for  his  trans- 
gression, was  an  order  to  recite  the  seven  penitential  psalms 
of  David  once  a  week  for  three  years  ! 

For  three  days,  counting  from  July  2,  the  day  on  which  he 
received  his  sentence,  he  was  nominally  imprisoned  in  the 
Medici  palace  where,  however,  he  was  permitted  to  walk  about 
in  the  beautiful  gardens,  to  keep  his  servant,  to  see  his  friends, 
to  receive  all  his  letters,  and  to  write  whatever  he  pleased.  The 
letters  he  wrote  at  this  time,  and  still  carefully  preserved,  set 
this  fact  beyond  all  doubt.  Next  day  Niccolini  told  him  that 
the  Pope  gave  him  permission  to  start  for  Sienna,  where  he 
had  been  invited  by  his  friend,  Archbishop  Piccolomini,  a  con- 
tagious disease  rendering  an  abode  in  Florence  dangerous  dur- 
ing the  summer.  On  the  tenth  of  July  Niccolini  announced 
his  departure  as  follows :  "  Last  Wednesday  morning  Signor 
Galileo  started  for  Sienna  in  perfect  health ;  from  Viterbo  he 
writes  to  tell  me  that  in  the  cool  part  of  the  day  he  travelled 
four  miles  of  the  way  on  foot." 

In  Sienna  he  passed  the  summer  and  fall,  devoting  most  of 
his  time  to  a  new  work.  Dialogues  on  Local  Motion.  In  De- 
cember he  returned  to  his  own  home  on  the  hill  of  Arcetri, 
overlooking  Florence,  where  still  stands  the  tower  whence 

the  moon 
Through  optic  glass  the  Tuscan  artist  viewed 
At  evening,  from  the  top  of  Fiesole, 
Or  in  Valdarno,  to  descry  new  lands. 
Rivers  or  mountains  on  her  spotty  globe. 

Here  he  spent  the  remainder  of  his  days,  watching,  working, 
writing,  and  it  was  here  that  he  was  visited  by  many  distin- 
30*  X 


354  NOTES. 

guished  strangers,  among  others  by  Gassendi,  Deodati,  and 
the  English  poet  Milton  on  his  tour  through  Italy,  probably  in 
1638. 

To  the  end  of  his  life  he  never  seems  to  have  quite  recovered 
the  confidence  of  the  Inquisition  ;  in  fact,  he  was  to  be  free 
from  disturbance  only  on  the  following  conditions :  i.  Not  to 
give  Academical  lessons ;  2.  Not  to  hold  assemblies  ;  3.  Not  to 
give  large  dinner  parties ;  and  4.  Not  to  make  any  public  dem- 
onstration of  irreverence.  His  chief  companions  were  his  two 
daughters,  nuns  of  a  neighboring  convent,  the  premature  loss 
of  one  of  whom,  however,  he  had  soon  occasion  to  deplore. 
His  other  frequent  visitors  were  his  favorite  pupils  Castelli,  Tor- 
ricelli,  and  Viviani,  together  with  his  near  relatives  the  Buona- 
micis.  For  the  last  few  years  of  his  life  also  he  had  two  young 
clerks  sent  from  Rome  to  wait  on  him  and  to  write  for  him,  by 
Calasanzio,  afterwards  canonized,  the  famous  founder  of  the 
Pious  Schools.  An  incessant  worker,  the  little  rest  he  gave  his 
eyes,  especially  in  observing  the  mo^on  and  Jupiter's  satellites, 
was  followed  by  the  usual  consequence,  weakness  of  vision,  and 
finally  a  total  loss  of  sight  in  the  74th  year  of  his  age.  "The 
noblest  eyes  that  Nature  ever  made  are  darkened,"  writes  Cas- 
telli, announcing  the  sad  event ;  "  eyes  so  privileged,  and  gifted 
with  such  rare  powers  that  they  may  be  truly  said  to  have  seen 
more  than  the  eyes  of  all  that  are  gone  and  to  have  opened  the 
eyes  of  all  that  are  to  come." 

His  loss  he  endured  with  the  resignation  of  a  Christian.  "  So 
it  pleases  God,"  he  observed  to  a  friend,  "  so  it  pleases  me  also." 
In  spite,  indeed,  of  this  deprivation  he  does  not  appear  to  have 
spent  the  last  four  years  of  his  life  very  unhappily.  With  the 
assistance  of  his  clerks,  he  worked  at  his  astronomical  tables  as 
hard  as  ever ;  he  visited  Florence  occasionally ;  he  was  sur- 
rounded by  devoted  and  loving  friends ;  and  he  seldom  hesitated 
publicly  or  privately  to  crack  his  jokes  on  the  Ptolemaic  system 
and  all  its  abettors. 

His  numerous  correspondence  shows  a  strong  disposition  to 
grumble,  but  in  a  singular  letter  of  his  lately  brought  to  light  by 
Feuillet  de  Conches,  the  most  successful  autograph  collector  in 


GALILEO.  355 

Europe,  the  following  passage  shows  anything  but  a  miserable 
state  of  mind  or  body  :  "  Illustre  Signore  e  Padrone  os- 
SERVTSSIMO. — The  royal' gift  of  loo  flasks  two  years  ago  and 
one  of  a  small  number  two  months  ago,  that  of  his  eminence 
the  Cardinal,  that  of  their  serene  highnesses  the  Princes,  those 
of  his  excellency  the  Duke  of  Guise,  and  my  own  two  barrels 
of  native  wine,  being  all  gone,  I  am  compelled  to  have  recourse 
to  your  courteous  and  truly  imperial  offer.  You  will,  therefore, 
aiding  yourself  with  the  advice  of  the  most  refined  tastes,  obtain 
for  me  in  all  diligence  and  with  all  imaginable  care,  a  provision 
of  forty  bottles  or  two  cases  of  various  liquors,  the  most  exquisite 
that  can  be  found.  Spare  no  expense.  With  regard  to  other 
corporal  pleasures  I  deny  myself  so  much  that  I  can  easily 
afford  to  go  to  some  expense  in  favor  of  Bacchus.  You  must 
not  omit  the  wines  of  Scio,  nor  of  Carini,  nor  the  Greek  wines, 
nor  those  of  the  country  of  my  master,  Archimedes  of  Syracuse, 
nor  clarets,  etc.  On  sending  the  cases,  send  the  bill  too ;  I  will 
pay  it  in  full  and  at  once.y 

At  the  ripe  old  age  of  seventy-eight,  a  slight  attack  of  fever 
attended  with  palpitation  of  the  heart,  carried  him  off  quietly 
in  1642,  the  year  of  Sir  Isaac  Newton's  birth.  Buried  at  first 
in  the  chapel  of  the  Black  Friars,  his  body  was  afterwards  re- 
moved to  the  church  of  Santa  Croce,  where  his  monumental 
tomb,  immediately  opposite  Michael  Angelo's,  is  to-day  one  of 
the  greatest  attractions  in  that  famous  Pantheon  of  Florence. 

Whatever  obloquy  was  brought  on  Galileo's  reputation  by  his 
own  biting  satire,  by  the  ignorance  of  his  enemies,  and  the  un- 
due severity  of  those  who  should  have  been  somewhat  more 
indulgent  friends,  was  soon  completely  dispelled.  Newton's  the- 
ory of  universal  gravitation  throwing  such  a  flood  of  light  on  the 
Copernican  system  as  to  render  it  unassailable.  Pope  Benedict 
XIV.  annulled  the  sentence  condemning  Galileo's  famous  work. 
His  theory  of  the  rotatory  motion  of  the  earth  around  its  axis  is 
a  truth  that  to-day  requires  no  demonstration  ;  as  Father  Secchi 
says,  "  it  is  a  corollary  of  all  astronomical  science." 

Galileo  loved  literature  passionately,  though  his  taste  for  po- 
etry is  questionable  as  he  had  all  Ariosto  by  heart,  much  pre- 


356  NOTES. 

"erring  him  to  Tasso.  He  was  of  small  stature  but  well  built, 
of  cheerful  countenance  but  quick  temper,  disposed  to  find  fault 
but  ready  to  forgiv^e,  of  genial  habits,  very  fond  of  good  cheer 
and  of  entertaining  his  friends  at  table  ;  he  much  preferred  the 
country  to  the  city,  his  chief  amusement,  when  tired  of  his  as- 
tronomy, being  to  cultivate  his  garden.  For  his  own  happiness 
he  was  too  impatient  of  contradiction,  too  passionate,  too  head- 
strong, and  too  desirous  of  instantly  grasping  a  glory  that  was 
really  his  own  and  which  none  could  withhold  from  him.  We 
can  easily  see  that  he  had  not  a  particle  of  the  martyr  in  his 
composition.  If  his  over-readiness  to  say  cutting  things  brought 
him  into  trouble,  he  was  just  as  ready  to  try  to  get  out  of  it 
again  by  swallowing  his  words,  with  the  whites  of  his  eyes  turned 
up,  the  corners  of  his  mouvA  turned  down,  and  his  tongue  stuck 
into  the  side  of  his  cheek.  Vanity,  from  the  consciousness  of  a 
stupendous  intellect,  was  perhaps  the  cause  of  it  all.  He  need 
not  have  given  himself  so  much  trouble  in  forcing  his  truths  on 
the  world.  Satisfied  that  he  had  sown  the  seeds  of  truth,  he 
should  have  quietly  given  them  the  time  to  germinate.  "  For," 
as  Sir  David  Brewster  remarks,  "  if  new  and  startling  opinions 
are  thrown  in  the  face  of  the  community,  if  they  are  uttered  in 
triumph,  or  insult,  in  contempt  of  public  opinion,  or  in  derision 
of  cherished  errors,  they  lose  the  comeliness  of  truth  in  the  ran- 
cor of  their  propagation  ;  and,  like  seeds  scattered  in  a  hurri- 
cane, they  often  only  blind  and  irritate  the  husbandmen." 

Translation  of  the  inscriptions  in  Italian,  Greek  and  Latin  on 
Galileo's  house  at  Arcetri,  near  Florence  :  "  With  God.  In  this 
modest  house,  O  Traveller,  Divine  Galileo,  the  greatest  con- 
templator  of  the  heavens,  the  restorer,  or  rather  the  Father,  of 
experimental  philosophy,  though  troubled  by  the  wicked  arts  of 
false  philosophers,  dwelled  for  eleven  years,  from  Nov.  i,  1631 
to  Jan.  9,  1642.  Here  too  he  breathed  his  last  sigh.  Contem- 
plate and  venerate  the  sacred  spirit  and  silent  glory  of  a  spot 
which,  with  the  permission  of  Antonio  Bonaiuti,  lord  of  the 
manor,  has  been  dedicated  to  eternity  by  Giovanni  Baptista 
Clemente  Nelli,  Knight  of  the  order  of  Saint  Stephen,  Senator 
and  Florentine  patrician." 


BEETHOVEN.  357 

His  principal  discoveries  in  physical  science  are:  i.  The 
three  laws  of  motion,  and  the  law  of  falling  bodies.  2.  That  a 
projectile  describes  a  parabola.  3.  That  a  pendulum  swings 
regularly.  4.  That  air  has  weight.  5.  The  invention  of  the 
telescope.  6.  The  discovery  of  Jupiter's  sateUites,  Venus's 
phases,  spots  on  the  sun,  etc. 

That  he  was  ever  subjected  to  the  torture  is  an  absurdity :  i. 
The  dispassionate  reader  of  his  life  can  never  see  any  reason 
for  entertaining  such  a  suspicion.  2.  There  is  not  the  slightest 
shadow  of  any  evidence  on  the  subject.  3.  Galileo  was  not 
made  of  the  stuff  that  necessitated  any  such  harshness ;  his 
facility  to  getting  himself  into  trouble  being  almost  surpassed 
by  his  readiness  to  abjure  his  way  out  of  it. 

Note  78  — BEETHOVEN— page  135. 

Louis  Van  Beethoven  (1770-1827),  instrumental  composer, 
probably  the  highest  musical  genius  that  has  so  far  appeared  on 
earth,  the  most  ideal  artist  of  the  most  ideal  of  arts,  was  born 
at  Bonn,  at  that  time  in  the  electorate  of  Cologne,  of  Flemish 
descent,  and  inheriting  from  his  father  and  grandfather,  both 
singers,  a  strong  predilection  for  music.  Though  manifesting 
much  ability  from  his  earliest  years,  he  showed  the  greatest  re- 
pugnance to  regular  systematic  study,  the  whip,  applied  by  the 
hands  of  a  poverty-stricken,  dissipated  father,  being  often  found 
necessary  to  make  him  take  his  lessons.  It  is  an  often  told 
story  that  a  spider  used  to  drop  regularly  from  the  ceiling  every 
day  to  listen  to  him  while  playing  on  the  violin.  One  day, 
however,  the  mother,  coming  in  suddenly,  killed  the  insect 
before  it  could  run  up  its  thread  again.  The  wilful  boy,  it  is 
added,  was  so  irritated  at  what  he  considered  an  act  of  wanton 
cruelty  that  in  a  fit  of  passion  he  broke  his  instrument  to  pieces, 
and  no  threats  could  induce  him  to  take  a  lesson  again  for 
several  days. 

The  child,  however,  was  soon  understood  by  Van  Der  Eden, 
the  court  organist,  under  whose  care  the  young  musician  made 
rapid  promise.  He  was  fortunate  too  in  having  for  a  teacher 
Neefe,  Van  Der  Eden's  successor,  who   instead  of  confining 


358  NOTES. 

Ihe  boy,  like  his  other  pupils,  to  the  usual  highly  important  but 
rather  uninteresting  exercises,  boldly  plunged  him  at  once  into 
the  middle  of  Bach's  and  Haendel's  masterpieces.  Neefe  had 
made  no  blunder.  At  twelve  Beethoven  was  perfect  master  of 
Bach's  Piano  Instructor,  with  all  its  exceedingly  difficult  figures 
and  preludes.  At  thirteen  he  composed  nine  variations  to  a 
march,  and  three  piano  sonatas,  published  at  Mannheim.  At 
fifteen  he  was  appointed  assistant  court  organist,  and  in  the  roll 
of  the  Archbishop's  musicians  his  name  is  still  to  be  found  with 
the  remark :  "  Of  good  capacity,  young,  steady,  of  quiet  behavior, 
and  poor.'*  He  was  now  not  only  able  to  support  himself  but 
also  to  be  of  some  assistance  to  his  family  by  giving  lessons,  and 
seems  to  have  attended  conscientiously  to  his  studies,  devoting 
little  time  to  original  composition.  At  seventeen  he  was  sent  to 
Vienna  to  see  Mozart,  at  that  time  the  supreme  monarch  of  the 
musical  world,  the  Count  of  Waldstein  furnishing  the  means  and 
providing  him  with  a  proper  letter  of  introduction.  The  great 
maestro,  desirous  to  test  the  ability  of  a  young  musician  who 
had  already  attracted  some  attention,  gave  him,  by  way  of  test, 
the  development  of  a  theme  "bristhng  with  difficulties."  But 
the  boy's  astonishing  art  of  improvisation  was  already  so  well 
developed  that  Mozart  could  not  help  exclaiming  to  the  applaud- 
ing company :  "  Keep  your  eyes  on  that  young  man  :  he  will 
assuredly  make  his  mark." 

His  mother's  death  recalled  him  to  Bonn  where  he  spent  the 
next  five  years,  his  father's  intemperate  habits  compelling  him 
to  support  and  educate  his  younger  brothers.  In  1792,  the  boys 
being  able  to  do  something  for  themselves,  he  was  sent  again  to 
Vienna,  this  time  by  his  patron,  the  Elector-Archbishop  of  Co- 
logne, who  allowed  him  a  pension  of  600  florins  and  besides  in- 
troducing him  to  the  best  society,  secured  him  the  generous 
hospitality  of  Prince  Lichnovski  as  an  honored  guest  in  his 
splendid  palace.  This  was  the  happiest  part  of  the  great  com- 
poser's life.  He  nominally  studied  under  Haydn  for  a  year  or 
two  but  was  always  too  fiery,  impatient,  and  self-opinionated  to 
Drofit  m  ich  by  that  great  master's  lessons.  His  other  teachers 
were  Sa.ieri   for   dramatic   music,  and    the    thorough    scholar 


BEETHOVEN.  359 

-\brcchtsbergcr,  chapel  master  of  Saint  Stephen's,  for  counter- 
point. 

His  education  being  now  completed  and  his  powers  thoroughly 
trained,  his  name  soon  becomes  a  well-known  one  in  Vienna, 
where  Mozart's  cloak  is  said  to  have  fallen  on  the  shoulders  of 
the  young  Rhenish  musician.  The  very  artists  and  amateurs 
that  had  interpreted  the  symphonies  and  quatuors  of  the  great 
masters  for  Viennese  society  are  now  performing  Beethoven's 
highly  relished  works  with  equal  delight  and  equal  success.  In 
1795  the  young  maestro  visits  Prague,  Leipzig  and  Berlin,  his 
extraordinary  skill  on  the  piano,  but  particularly  his  surprising 
improvisation,  everywhere  exciting  the  greatest  enthusiasm. 
The  Musical  Gazette  of  Leipzig  thus  speaks  of  him  in  1798 : 
"  Beethoven's  style  of  play  is  exceedingly  brilliant,  though  oc- 
casionally wanting  in  delicacy  and  clearness.  But  it  is  in  fol- 
lowing out  the  inspirations  of  his  imagination  that  the  young 
artist  is  particularly  great.  In  this  respect  he  is  really  extraor- 
dinary. Since  Mozart's  death,  no  talent  has  produced  such 
effect  as  Beethoven's."  His  works,  though  not  yet  impressed 
with  his  profoundly  original  character,  are  luminous,  intelligible, 
pathetic,  and  many  of  them  reveal  a  peculiar  sensibility  not 
readily  found  afterwards.  In  1800  he  thus  writes  to  a  friend: 
"  My  compositions  are  very  profitable ;  I  may  say  I  have  more 
orders  than  I  can  fulfil.  People  no  longer  haggle  with  me  ;  I  set 
my  price  and  I  am  readily  paid."  With  1800,  what  critics  call 
his  first  manner  comes  to  an  end.  His  works,  so  far,  reveal  the 
influence  of  Mozart  and  Haydn,  but  are  rapidly  progressing  to- 
wards original  and  independent  power.  Of  these,  extending  to 
his  2 1  St  opus,  the  Sonate  Pathetique ,  Adelaida,  the  Septett,  and 
the  First  Sytnphony  are  the  most  celebrated. 

With  the  nineteenth  century  his  troubles  begin.  His  gener- 
ous patron,  the  Archbishop-Elector,  dies;  his  beloved  country, 
Rhenish  Germany,  is  conquered  and  annexed  to  the  French 
Republic ;  but,  what  is  personally  worst  of  all  and,  to  a  man  in 
his  position,  peculiarly  agonizing,  a  deafness,  which,  so  far,  has 
been  only  partial,  gets  worse  and  worse  in  spite  of  the  efforts 
of  the  most  celebrated  aurists  of  Europe.     Imagine  what  intense 


360  NOTES. 

distress  such  an  affliction  must  prove  to  Beethoven,  who  felt  his 
brain  to  be  a  restless  sea  of  melody,  ever  vibrating  with  con- 
ceptions of  enchanting  brilliancy,  ideas  of  the  most  elevated 
grandeur,  and  harmonies  of  unspeakable  sublimity !  Some  sa> 
that  the  world  has  lost  nothing  through  the  unhappy  artist's 
bitter  deprivation.  They  say  that  it  was  this  compulsory  pour- 
ing forth  of  the  lonely  aspirations  of  a  soul  steeped  in  the 
gloomy  grandeur  of  supernatural  melody,  like  spirits  mourning 
outside  Paradise,  that  lifted  his  works  to  a  pitch  far  transcending 
all  previous  effort,  to  the  very  highest  regions,  in  short,  of  the 
loftiest  ideal  art. 

However  that  may  be,  it  is  unquestionable  that  the  infliction 
produced  a  most  unhappy  effect  on  the  inaestro  himself,  rendering 
hiln  morose,  suspicious  and  often  so  ill-tempered  as  to  be  almost 
unendurable.  Of  this  no  one  was  more  conscious  than  himself, 
and  his  regret,  expressed  in  a  letter  written  on  the  subject  to 
his  brother,  in  1802,  is  extremely  touching.  "O  you  men,"  he 
writes,  "  who  believe  me  coarse,  unfeeling,  misanthropical,  you 
act  unjustly.  From  my  childhood  I  felt  a  natural  disposition  to 
kindliness,  to  benevolent  actions.  You  don't  know  that  for  the 
last  six  years  I  have  been  in  a  miserable  state  of  health,  made 
worse,  if  possible,  by  ignorant  doctors ;  and  that,  lured  on  from 
year  to  year  by  falses  hopes,  I  am  now  compelled  to  acknowl- 
edge that  my  cure,  if  even  at  all  possible,  must  be  long  and 
painful.  Born  with  a  lively,  ardent  temperament,  and  strongly 
disposed  to  the  enjoyments  of  society,  I  have  been  forced  to 
bury  myself  in  the  solitude  of  a  lonely  life.  Now  and  then  I 
tried  to  forget  my  infirmity,  but  I  was  soon  repelled  by  my  dif- 
ficulty in  hearing,  and  could  never  bear  to  tell  people  to  speak 
louder,  to  shout,  that  I  was  deaf!  How  could  I  bear  to  ac- 
knowledge the  feebleness  of  a  sense  that  should  have  been  more 
exquisite  with  me  than  with  others,  and  which  I  once  indeed 
did  possess  to  a  degree  of  perfection  seldom  attained  by  men 
of  my  art.  For  me,  henceforth,  no  recreation  in  society,  no  in- 
timate conversation,  no  pleasant  intercourse,  no  cordial  out- 
pouring of  heart  and  soul.  Living  always  alone,  I  must  no< 
approach  society.     I  see  before  me  the  gloomy  pangs  of  exile 


BEETHOVEN.  36 1 

The  moment  I  enter  the  world,  a  most  painful  sense  of  timidity 
oppresses  me  ;  I  fancy  every  one  is  remarking  my  condition." 

To  make  matters  worse,  it  would  seem  that  a  lady  to  whom 
he  was  most  tenderly  attached  about  this  time,  who  had  accepted 
his  letters,  and  for  whom  he  had  composed  his  famous  Moonlight 
Sottata,  was  cruelly  deceiving  him  ;  in  fact,  by  marrying  another, 
she  left  him  so  completely  heart-broken  that  for  some  time  his 
friends  were  apprehensive  of  his  starving  himself  to  death.  He 
recovered,  however,  slowly  after  awhile,  partly  through  a  love 
for  his  art,  partly  through  a  notion,  which  he  seems  to  have  now 
entertained  for  the  first  time.  It  was  to  make  some  amends  for 
the  deficiency  of  his  early  education  by  studying  antiquity  and 
the  ancient  heroes,  Brutus  especially,  thinking  perhaps  that 
Stoic  philosophy  would  enable  him  to  face  the  ordinary  evils  of 
life  with  indifference  if  not  with  patience.  Long  before  the  close 
of  his  life,  however,  he  showed  truer  wisdom  by  addressing  him- 
self directly  to  the  true  Fountain  of  consolation  for  the  weary 
and  afflicted. 

One  of  the  grandest  productions  of  his  genius  at  this  time, 
the  Heroic  Symphony,  strange  to  say,  had  been  at  first  intended 
for  Napoleon  Bonaparte,  whom  Beethoven,  like  many  a  young 
man  of  the  period,  had  ardently  admired  as  the  leading  spirit 
and  representative  of  the  "glorious  "  French  Revolution.  But 
the  instant  the  news  arrived  in  Vienna  that  the  First  Consul  had 
been  proclaimed  Emperor  of  the  French,  Beethoven  tore  off  the 
dedication,  stamped  on  it,  swore  fiercely  at  the  "  tyrant,"  and 
had  the  piece  performed  under  another  name.  This  composi- 
tion, however,  the  first  in  which  he  completely  revealed  himself 
in  all  his  mysterious  grandeur,  his  depth,  his  novelty,  his  far- 
reaching  and  almost  unapproachable  ideas,  was  in  the  begin- 
ning received  with  rather  timid  astonishment  even  by  his  great- 
est admirers,  whilst  it  encountered  the  fiercest  attack?,  from  the 
uncompromising  partisans  of  the  old  Viennese  school. 

His  next  great  work,  also,  Fidelio,  his  well-known  opera, 
produced  in  Vienna,  in  1805,  under  the  name  of  Leonora,  had 
at  first  only  a  moderate  success.     This  is  not  wonderful.     To  do 
full  justice  to  such  an  opera,  at  least  three  requisites  are  indis 
31 


362  NOTES. 

pensable :  first-class  singers,  a  first-class  orchestra,  and  an 
audience  of  first-class  musicians.  Under  such  circumstances 
alcne  can  a  work  of  such  unapproachable  skill,  science,  and 
genius  be  properly  rendered.  Fidelio,  may  never  be  "  popular," 
but  unquestionably  it  gains  rather  than  loses  by  time,  even  in 
Paris  where  German  music  has  usually  such  difficulty  in  making 
headway.  The  other  great  work  of  Beethoven's  at  this  period, 
when  music  as  an  art  seems  to  have  reached  its  climax,  is  the 
symphony  called  the  Pastoral.  Without  pretending  to  musical 
knowledge,  the  most  of  us  know  that  a  pastoral  symphony  in 
the  old  style  usually  undertook  to  describe,  in  musical  ideas,  a 
pleasant  landscape,  a  murmuring  brook,  the  singing  birds,  a 
village  dance,  a  sudden  thunder-storm,  the  dispersion  of  the 
dancers,  and  finally  the  thanksgiving  prayer.  These  stereotype 
episodes  Haydn  repeats  again  and  again,  though  always  with  a 
charming  variety  and  a  captivating  interest.  But  how  does 
Beethoven  approach  such  a  subject  ?  His  vast  intellect  cannot 
be  circumscribed  by  any  such  narrow  programme.  Listening 
o  his  Pastoral  we  find  nothing  to  remind  us  of  the  charms  or 
terrors  of  mere  rural  life.  Quite  the  contrary.  We  feel  our- 
selves, at  the  outset,  in  the  presence  of  a  human  soul,  simple, 
honest,  and  in  the  calm  enjoyment  of  a  happy  tranquillity.  But 
we  are  soon  made  aware  of  the  existence  of  an  evil  thought, 
lurking  deep  in  a  fold  of  the  heart,  buried  away  almost  out  of 
consciousness,  but  gradually  making  itself  felt,  like  a  worm 
hatched  in  a  fruit.  The  evil  thing  gradually  assumes  propor- 
tions more  and  more  formidable  ;  it  is  soon  fearfully  disturbing 
the  tranquillity  of  the  alarmed  conscience  ;  finally  it  becomes  a 
fierce,  ungovernable,  unsparing  passion.  The  soul  suffers, 
moans,  writhes,  bursts  out  into  prayers,  imprecations,  cries  of 
agony.  But  Virtue  triumphs  ;  Sin  retires,  his  bowlings  weaker, 
fainter,  more  confused,  are  at  last  lost  in  the  distance.  The 
poor  soul  recovers  its  former  tranquillity  and,  at  the  feet  of  Eter- 
nal Wisdom,  pours  itself  forth  in  prayers  of  intense  joy  and 
gratitude.  This  is  what  Beethoven's  Pastoral  tells  us,  but  we  do 
not  mean  to  gainsay  the  taste  of  those  who  find  the  imitation 
of  cooing  doves  and  hunters'  horns  far  more  interesting. 


BEETHOVEN.  363 

That  Beethoven,  however,  could  be  an  imitator  too  whenever 
he  pleased,  he  gave  triumphant  proof  in  the  Battle  of  Vtttorm, 
a  military  symphony  for  two  orchestras,  performed  in  the  great 
hall  of  the  Vienna  University  in  1813.  Of  this  piece  the  Mu- 
sical Gazelle  of  Leipzig,  never  an  over-friendly  critic,  expres-sed 
itself  as  follows :  "  As  to  the  sounds  representing  the  shifting 
features  of  the  battle,  nothing  can  be  more  appropriate  than  the 
means  employed  by  the  author  for  the  purpose.  The  effects, 
the  illusions  are  all  complete  ;  we  can  assert,  without  reserve, 
that  within  the  whole  domain  of  imitative  music  there  is  no 
work  that  can  be  compared  with  this."  In  181 5  he  reached  the 
highest  degree  of  personal  glory  when,  by  his  dramatic  cantata 
Oh  Glorious  Moment  I  he  celebrated  the  victories  of  the  Allies 
over  Napoleon,  in  the  presence  of  the  sovereigns  of  Europe  as- 
sembled at  Vienna. 

With  regard  to  Beethoven's  third  manner,  from  181 5  to  1827, 
critics  differ,  some  asserting  he  has  fallen  below  himsel/,  while 
others,  though  admitting  much  incomprehensibility,  insist  he 
has  even  surpassed  himself  by  introducing  a  new  idea,  poetry, 
into  music,  before  which  the  old  forms  of  what  is  called  absolute 
music  must  all  yield  in  course  of  time.  They  point  out,  in  par- 
ticular, '^xsChoral  Symphony,  his  Missa  Solemnis  (Solemn  Mass), 
some  Quartetts  for  stringed  instruments,  and  some  Variations 
in  a  waltz,  as  partaking  rather  of  the  nature  of  inspiration  than 
of  ordinary  human  effort,  and  reaching  the  highest  possible 
realms  of  the  highest  possible  art.  The  Missa  Solemnis,  per- 
formed in  one  of  the  theatres  of  Vienna  in  1822,  in  spite  of  some 
technical  difficulties,  had  a  splendid  success,  but  it  was  painful 
to  see  the  great  master,  nominally  .directing  the  musicians,  but 
really  so  stone-deaf  to  everything  going  on  around  him  that  he 
had  to  be  turned  round  by  one  of  the  singers  so  as  to  be  made 
aware  from  the  gesticulations  of  the  audience  of  its  delighted 
and  enthusiastic  approbation. 

But  it  would  be  more  painful,  even  if  we  had  the  space,  to 
devote  any  attention  to  his  numerous  afflictions,  his  domestic 
troubles,  his  bitter  disappointment  in  a  graceless  nephew',  the 
Bon  of  a  dead  brother,  whom  he  had  educated  at  great  expense 


364  NOTES. 

and  trouble,  his  uncouth  manners,  his  strange  eccentricities,  his 
roughness  towards  his  best  friends.  Truly  genius  has  its  coun- 
terpoises. We  pigmies  need  not  grieve  that  we  are  not  giants. 
"  Great  or  little,"  as  Goethe  says,  "  all  have  to  pay  the  scot  ot 
humanity." 

A  journey  to  Vienna,  undertaken  in  cold  wet  weather,  in 
company  with  his  good-for-nothing  nephew,  at  last  gave  his  en- 
feebled constitution  a  blow  from  which  he  never  recovered. 
On  his  death-bed  the  great  maestro  showed  a  most  edifying 
piety,  devoutly  receiving  the  sacraments  of  the  Church,  and 
warmly  reconciling  himself  with  Hummel  with  whom  he  had 
for  some  time  been  at  violent  enmity. 

We  conclude  with  a  hasty  resume  from  the  pen  of  a  compe- 
tent appreciator  of  the  great  artist. 

"  Beethoven's  compositions,  138  in  numberj  comprise  all  the 
forms  of  vocal  and  instrumental  music,  from  the  sonata  to  .the 
symphony,  from  the  simple  song  to  the  opera  and  oratorio.  In 
each  of  these  forms  he  displayed  the  depth  of  his  feeling,  the 
power  of  his  genius ;  in  some  of  them  he  reached  a  greatness 
never  approached  by  his  predecessors  or  followers.  His  piano- 
forte sonatas  have  brought  the  technical  resources  of  that  in- 
strument to  a  perfection  previously  unknown,  but  they  at  the 
same  time  embody  an  infinite  variety  and  depth  of  emotion. 
His  nine  symphonies  show  a  continuous  climax  of  development, 
ascending  from  the  simpler  forms  of  Haydn  and  Mozart  to  the 
colossal  dimensions  of  the  Choral  Symphony,  which  almost 
seem  to  surpass  the  possibilities  of  artistic  expansion,  and  the 
subject  of  which  is  humanity  itself  with  its  sufferings  and  ideals. 
His  dramatic  works  —  the  opera  Fidelio  and  the  overtures  to 
Egmont  and  Coriolanus  —  display  depth  of  pathos  and  force  of 
dramatic  characterization.  Even  his  smallest  songs  and  piano- 
forte pieces  reflect  a  heart  full  of  love  and  a  mind  bent  on  eter- 
nal thoughts  and  things." 

Note  79  —  COROT  —  page  138. 

Jean  Baptiste  Camille  Corot  (1796-1875),  landscape 
painter  of  peculiar  originality,  born  in  Paris,  educated  at  Rouen, 


CO  ROT.  365 

Stood  behind  a  counter  as  dry-goods  clerk  till  his  twenty-sixth 
year,  when,  no  longer  able  to  resist  the  promptings  of  his  genius, 
with  his  father's  permission,  he  took  some  hasty  lessons  in  the 
studios  and  then  passed  several  delightful  years  in  dreaming 
and  thinking  and  working  in  Italy.  His  first  works,  a  Land- 
scape near  Narni  and  the  Roman  CainPagna,  hailed  by  true 
artists  with  acknowledged  delight,  were  totally  neglected  by  the 
public.  A  modest  inheritance,  however,  enabled  him  to  work 
away  in  patience  and  love  until  the  arrival  of  better  days.  They 
came  at  last,  not  until  he  had  passed  his  sixtieth  year.  Then 
capricious  fortune  smiled,  and  orders  came  faster  than  he  could 
fulfil  them. 

Such  neglect  is  not  surprising.  His  style,  though  highly 
original,  possessed  no  quality  to  catch  the  vulgar  eye.  To  be 
able  to  detect  the  eerie  mysterious  feeling  of  nature  emanating 
from  his  landscapes,  you  should  be  almost  as  close  and  as  lov- 
ing an  observer  as  himself.  His  canvases  are  anything  but 
maps  ;  they  possess  few  of  the  topographic  features  that  enable 
you  to  distinguish  one  scene  from  another.  But  you  feel  your- 
self in  presence  of  a  poet  who  sees  more  with  the  wistful  eyes 
of  his  soul  than  with  the  material  eyes  of  his  body.  He  inter- 
prets the  mystic  senses  of  what  he  sees  rather  than  their  hard 
realities.  His  misty,  silvery  light,  his  calm,  glimmering  water, 
his  shadowy  trees,  his  vague  foliage,  his  sleeping  meadows,  his 
unreal  figures,  suggest  rather  than  describe,  and  gently  start  a 
dreamy,  delightful  revery.  He  charms  you  into  a  soft  enchant- 
ment as  with  sweet  solemn  music,  and  excites  a  certain  sense  of 
pleasure  as  with  a  faint  perfume.  To  relish  Corot  thoroughly  it 
is  not  enough  to  know  him  long;  you  must  likewise  have  a 
kindred  spirit,  a  soul  rather  disposed  to  sentiment  and  genial- 
pensive  fancy  rather  than  to  substantiality  and  matter  of  fact. 
This  is  a  simple  reason  why  for  nearly  forty  years  Corot's  name 
was  hardly  known  outside  the  select  few.  It  is  to-day  the  fash- 
ion. For  the  last  few  years  everybody  affects  to  admire  him^ 
and  would-be  judges  go  into  exstasies  over  his  worst  daubs. 
For  it  cannot  be  denied  there  are  Corots  and  Corots.  Some, 
painted  with  care,  love,  conscientiousness  —  veritable  gems  — 
31* 


^66  NOTES. 

are  beyond  all  price.  Others,  dashed  off  in  a  hurry,  careless, 
characterless,  except  that  they  bear  a  distant  general  resam- 
blancfe  —  the  "  Corots  of  the  auction  rooms,"  would  not  bring  a 
penny  but  for  their  signature.  The  Parisian  amateurs,  jn  par- 
ticular, highly  appreciate  his  landscapes  ;  they  are  to  them  mag- 
ical transfers  of  what  they  can  feast  their  eyes  on  every  summer 
morning  when  they  indulge  in  an  early  ramble  through  the 
woods  or  forests,  the  hills  or  vales,  the  parks  or  pleasure  grounds 
that  make  up  the  peculiar  scenery  surrounding  their  gay  capital 
in  all  directions. 

No  one  loved  the  early  morning  more  than  Corot ;  the  noon- 
day light  he  could  not  bear ;  when  it  came  "  there  was  nothing 
more  to  do,"  as  he  says  himself  in  a  characteristic  letter,  an  ex- 
tract from  which  thoroughly  reveals  the  man's  pecuhar  mode 
of  regarding  nature. 

"A  landscape  painter's  day  is  a  day  of  dehght.  He  rises 
long  before  the  sun,  at  three  in  the  morning ;  seated  under  a 
tree,  he  watches  and  waits.  At  first  there  is  little  to  be  seen. 
Nature  is  nothing  more  than  a  white  veil,  on  which  some  masses 
are  vaguely  sketched  in  profile.  Everything  smells  sweet ; 
everything  trembles  pleasantly  under  the  dawn's  freshening 
breeze.  Bi7ig!  The  sun  is  coming !  He  reddens  the  gauzy 
veil,  but  he  has  not  yet  torn  it  away  from  meadow,  valley,  hill, 
and  horizon.  On  the  cold  green  grass,  the  nocturnal  vapors, 
like  silvery  tufts,  are  still  clinging.  Bing  !  Bing !  A  ray  of  the 
sun ! — Another  ray  !  The  small  flowerets  awake  joyously  ;  see 
them  trembling  under  their  diamond  dew-drops.  The  chilly 
leaves  begin  to  whisper  under  the  air  of  the  morning.  Nothing 
as  yet  is  seen,  but  it  is  all  there.  The  landscape  lies  behind  thai 
semi-transparent  gauze  of  quivering  mist.  Now  the  vaporous 
curtain,  lifted  by  the  sun,  slowly  rising,  reveals  the  silver-striped 
river,  the  meadows,  the  cottages,  the  far  receding  distances. 
Bang !  The  sun  has  risen  !  You  now  realize  everything  you 
had  been  just  imagining.  Bang  !  There  goes  the  peasant  with 
his  cart  and  oxen.  Ting-a-ling  /  See  the  bell-wether  leading 
his  flock  !  Bang  f  Everything  sparkles,  shines,  is  full  of  light, 
soft  light,  light  as  yet  sweet  and  caressing.     The  backgrounds 


NORMAL   SCHOOL.  367 

with  their  simple  contour  and  harmonious  tone  are  lost  in  the 
infinite  sky  through  an  atmosphere  of  azure  and  mist.  The 
flowers  lift  up  their  heads  ;  the  birds  fly  here  and  there.  A  rus- 
tic, mounted  on  a  white  horse,  disappears  on  the  narrowing 
path.  The  rounded  willows  are  turning,  like  mill-wheels,  on 
the  river  edge.  And  the  artist,  eagerly  seizing  his  brushes, 
paints  away  —  paints  away!  Oh  what  a  beautiful  cow,  chest- 
deep  in  the  wet  grass.  Let  me  paint  her !  Crac  /  There  she  is  ! 
True  to  life  !  A  splendid  likeness  !  Boiim  !  The  sun  is  high. 
Everything  feels  warm  and  heavy  and  grave.  The  flowers 
hang  their  heads,  the  birds  are  silent,  the  village  noises  reach 
us.  Heavy  work  is  going  on  there.  That 's  the  blacksmith's 
hammer  ringing  on  the  anvil.  Bourn  !  It  is  time  to  go  back. 
All  is  too  visible.  There  is  nothing  now  to  do,  except  to  take 
breakfast  at  the  farm.  A  good  slice  of  home-made  bread, 
newly-churned  butter,  eggs,  cream,  ham.  Bourn  !  That 's  right, 
friends  !  You  work  away ;  I  rest  myself.  I  enjoy  my  siesta, 
and  dream  about  my  morning  landscape.  I  dream  my  picture  ; 
later  I  shall  paint  my  dream." 

Note  80  — NORMAL   SCHOOL  — page  142. 

The  EcOLE  NoRMALE  of  Paris,  created  by  a  decree  of  the 
Convention  on  the  9th  Brumaire,  year  3  (October  i,  1794),  as  a 
school  to  teach  the  art  of  teaching,  was  opened  in  the  following 
year  under  such  men  as  Lagrange,  Laplace,  but  it  was  soon 
closed.  Started  again  in  1808  by  Napoleon,  it  opened  in  18 10 
with  37  pupils,  Cousin  at  the  head  of  the  list,  and  occupied  at 
first  the  buildings  of  the  suppressed  Plessis  College  ;  but  in  181 3 
it  was  removed  to  the  more  spacious  grounds  of  the  Seminary 
Saint  Esprit.  Regarded  for  a  few  years  by  the  Restoration 
with  a  somewhat  favorable  eye,  towards  1820  it  had  made  itself 
by  its  insubordination  so  obnoxious  to  the  Royahsts  that  in  1822, 
on  the  accession  of  the  ultra  Royalists  to  power,  it  was  closed, 
and  its  58  pupils  dismissed.  But,  something  of  the  kind  being 
absolutely  necessary,  the  Minister  of  Public  Instruction  opened 
it  again  in  1826  under  the  name  of  the  Preparatory  Norma, 
School,  with  19  pupils,  increased  in  a  few  years  to  49. 


368  NOTES. 

The  government  of  July  restored  the  old  name,  solidly  as- 
sisted the  institution  with  liberal  endowments,  and  made  im- 
portant regulations  for  its  management.  From  1830  to  1845  for 
ten  years  under  the  direction  of  Cousin,  the  average  number  of 
pupils  was  100.  In  1846  it  took  possession  of  its  present  abode 
in  the  Rue  d'  Uim,  near  Sainte  Genevieve.  The  Revolution  of 
1848  was  friendly  to  the  Ecole  Normale,  but  Fortoul,  Minister 
of  Public  Instruction,  being  more  desirous  to  obtain  practical 
general  teachers  than  mere  one-sided  scholars,  suppressed  the 
study  of  philosophy,  and  obliged  the  graduates  to  spend  three 
additional  years  at  practical  work  in  the  Lyceums  (Higher 
Schools)  before  presenting  themselves  for  permanent  professor- 
ships. This  measure  proving  too  severe  and  being  found  to 
relax  discipline,  Rouland,  Fortoul's  successor,  abolished  the 
Lyceum  novitiate,  made  Sainte-Beuve  professor  of  French  Lit- 
erature, and  raised  the  yearly  budget  of  the  Ecole  Noritiale  to 
sixty  thousand  dollars.  In  1867,  while  Sainte-Beuve  was  de- 
fending "  free  thought  "  in  the  Senate,  one  of  the  pupils  wrote  an 
encouraging  address,  which  appeared  in  the  Avenir  National. 
The  writer  being  discovered  and  expelled,  and  the  other  pupils 
signifying  their  intention  to  quit  the  school  with  their  companion, 
they  were  allowed  to  do  so,  and  the  school  was  temporarily 
closed.  After  vacation,  however,  it  was  opened  again  and  the 
pupils  reinstated,  but  with  a  changed  administration. 

The  main  function  of  the  Ecole  Normale  is  to  form  teachers 
for  the  public  schools.  Its  pupils  at  present  are  more  than  100; 
they  are  all  called  bursars,  each  holding  a  scholarship  of  about  200 
dollars  a  year,  which  fully  provides  for  their  maintenance.  The 
course  is  a  three  years'  one,  but  a  certain  number  of  the  best 
pupils  are  retained  for  a  fourth  and  a  fifth  year ;  these,  however, 
are  lost  to  the  public  schools,  being  prepared  for  the  posts  of 
superior  instruction,  such  as  professorships  in  the  Faculties. 
Generally  the  annual  vacancies  are  from  30  to  40,  for  which  the 
candidates  sometimes  amount  to  500.  To  be  allowed  to  com- 
pete, the  youth  must  be  a  Frenchman  or  entitled  to  civil  rights, 
over  18  years  of  age  and  under  24,  must  produce  certificates  of 
good  conduct  and  freedom  from  bodily  infirmity,  must  enter  an 


NORMAL  SCHOOL.  369 

engagement  to  devote,  if  successful,  at  least  10  years  to  public 
instruction,  and  must  have  obtained  the  degree  of  bachelor  of 
arts  or  bachelor  of  sciences,  according  to  the  section  which  he 
wishes  to  enter.  He  then  undergoes  a  preliminary  examination, 
which  is  held  on  the  same  day  in  each  academy,  or  centre  of 
every  school  district  throughout  France.  This  examination 
weeds  the  candidates ;  those  that  pass  come  up  to  Paris  for 
a  final  examination,  and  those  who  do  best  in  this  final  ex- 
amination are  admitted  to  the  vacant  scholarships.  From  this 
it  is  seen  that  Legouv6  is  perfectly  right  in  calling  the  pupils 
"the  elite  of  the  students  of  the  University;  "  and  to  what  a 
degree  of  advancement  they  aim  can  be  guessed  from  the  fact 
that  their  first  year's  scientific  course  comprehends  Differential 
and  Integral  Calculus.  The  Director-General,  the  Director  of 
Literary  Studies,  the  Director  of  Scientific  Studies  and  the  Pro- 
fessors (here  called  maitres  de  conference^,  about  26  in  all,  keep 
the  scholastic  destination  of  their  pupils  constantly  in  view. 
The  young  men  are,  moreover,  frequently  drilled  by  actual 
practice  in  the  Paris  schools.  At  the  end  of  three  years,  the 
successful  student  is  at  once  made  a  professor  or  assistant  pro- 
fessor, and  his  fortune  is  assured  for  life.  His  talents  and  suc- 
cesses are  carefully  taken  into  account ;  his  advancement  is 
gradual  and  certain  ;  the  highest  honors  are  open  to  him,  pro- 
fessorships of  the  Faculties,  directorships  of  the  great  colleges, 
rectorships  of  the  Academies,  etc.,  with  an  assured  pension  on 
his  retirement  in  old  age. 

A  French  professor,  thus  prepared  and  thus  treated,  has  a  far 
more  satisfactory  position  than  the  school-teachers  in  England 
or  America.  Even  the  most  successful  of  the  latter  have  no 
career  before  them  and  no  time  for  independent  study.  A 
French  professor  gives  his  three,  four  or  five  hours  a  day  to  his 
teaching  or  his  conference,  and  then  he  is  perfectly  free.  He 
has  nothing  to  do  with  the  discipline  or  the  government.  These 
are  taken  charge  of  by  persons  chosen  for  their  aptitude  for  that 
peculiar  kind  of  work.  A  man,  wishing  to  follow  a  profession 
that  keeps  him  in  contact  with  intellectual  studies  and  enables 
him  to  continue  them,  but  who  does  not  feel  himself  qualified 

Y 


370  NOTES. 

for  the  trying  post  of  teacher,  director,  pastor  and  man  of  busi* 
ness,  all  in  one,  will  hesitate  before  he  opens  a  school  in  Amer- 
ica, but  he  may  very  well  become  a  professor  in  France.  Ac- 
cordingly, the  service  of  public  instruction  in  France  attracts  a 
far  greater  proportion  of  the  intellectual  force  of  the  country 
than  even  in  New  England. 

To  become  a  teacher  in  France,  however,  other  ways  are  open 
besides  graduating  in  the  Ecole  Nonnale,  which  is  fortunate,  for, 
though  it  enjoys  a  great  literary  name  in  the  world,  few  of  its 
most  distinguished  alumni  are  real  savants,  most  of  them, 
Sarcey,  About,  Taine,  etc.,  being  journalists,  essayists,  poli- 
ticians, litterateurs,  everything,  in  fact,  but  teachers. 

NoteSi  — UNIVERSITY  — page  142. 

The  University  of  France  is,  not  a  building  nor  a  place 
of  education  of  any  kind,  but  an  organization  for  public  instruc- 
tion extending  all  over  the  country  and  completely  under  the 
control  of  the  government.  Under  that  title.  Napoleon  I.  es- 
tablished, in  1806,  a  great  lay  corporation,  whose  members, 
named  by  the  government,  had  the  exclusive  right  of  control- 
ling every  branch  of  education  throughout  the  whole  extent  of 
French  territory.  Instruction  was  to  be  of  three  kinds  '.superior, 
given  by  the  Faculties ;  secondary,  by  the  Lycees  and  the  Col- 
leges ;  and  primary,  by  the  common  schools.  No  educational 
establishment  should  be  permitted  outside  this  University  or 
without  its  authorization,  except  one  or  two  great  theological 
seminaries,  and  also  a  few  religious  corporations,  where  primary 
instruction  was  permitted. 

Such,  with  a  few  modifications,  is  the  University  of  France 
to-day.  It  is  directed  by  the  Minister  of  Public  Instruction,  as- 
sisted by  two  Superior  Councils,  —  one  of  PubHc  Instruction, 
one  of  Secondary  Instruction,  a  consulting  committee,  and  a 
body  of  twenty  Inspectors-General.  The  whole  country  is  di- 
vided into  1 5  educational  districts,  each  having  its  head  or  centre, 
called  an  Academy,  governed  by  a  Rector  and  an  Academy  In- 
spector, each  assisted  by  a  Council.  An  Academy  is  not  a 
teaching  body ;  it  is  a  responsible  corporation  whose  business 


FORTOUL.  371 

it  is  to  see  that  good  methods  and  proper  discipline  are  main- 
tained in  all  the  Faculties,  the  Lycees  and  the  Colleges  within  its 
jurisdiction.  An  Academy,  however,  has  no  power  over  the 
Primary  Schools;  these  are  intrusted  to  the  Prefect  of  the  De- 
partment, who,  as  may  be  expected,  generally  watches  the 
politics  of  the  teacher  more  carefully  than  his  capacity  for  in- 
struction. 

The  Superior  Council  of  Public  Instruction,  assisting  the 
Minister,  consists  of  32  members,  8  of  whom  are  churchmen  ; 
3,  senators ;  3,  councilors  of  state;  3,  judges  of  the  supreme  court; 
5,  members  of  the  Institute ;  8,  Inspectors-General ;  and  2, 
principals  of  private  schools  —  all  elected  by  their  peers.  Each 
Academic  Council  consists  of  13  members  :  the  Rector,  3  Acad- 
emy Inspectors,  3  Deans  of  Faculties,  i  bishop,  2  clergymen 
of  the  recognized  churches,  2  Deputies,  and  2  citizens. 

This  monopoly  of  education  by  the  state,  having  been  com- 
bated for  a  long  time  by  the  clergy  on  the  ground  of  its  leading 
the  youth  of  France  into  atheism,  was  at  last, —  mainly  through 
the  exertions  of  Archbishop  Dupanloup  and  E.  Laboulaye,  the 
well-known  friend  of  the  United  States,  —  in  1875,  considerably 
modified  by  a  law  allowing  higher  education  to  be  free.  The 
consequence  was  the  immediate  founding  of  four  free  Catholic 
Universities,  in  Paris,  Lille,  Lyons,  and  Angers.  In  the  Catholic 
University  of  Paris,  erected  at  the  expense  of  about  2  million 
francs,  raised  by  voluntary  subscription,  law,  science,  and  letters 
were  taught  last  year  to  163  pupils.  The  other  universities  are 
not  so  far  advanced,  but  the  religious  portion  of  the  French 
people  expect  great  results  from  them,  more  than  5  million 
francs  being  already  subscribed  for  the  great  establishment  at 
Lille.  The  Radical  party  in  the  Chambers,  not  approving  of 
free  education,  seem  determined  to  withhraw  from  these  univer- 
sities the  privilege  of  conferring  degrees. 

Note  82  — FORTOUL  — page  144. 

HippoLYTE  Nicolas  Honors  Fortoul  (1811-1856),  arche- 
ologist,  novelist,  educationalist,  minister,  and  senator,  having 
distinguished  himself  in  his  youth  by  several  important  histor- 


372  NOTES. 

ical  and  literary  works,  was  appointed  to  the  Faculty  of  Tou- 
louse in  1840,  where  he  dehvered  his  course  of  French  litera- 
ture with  great  success.  Sent  to  Aix,  in  1846,  as  Dean  of  the 
Faculty,  he  remained  there  for  two  years ;  when  elected  to  the 
National  Assembly  in  1848  he  attracted  the  attention  of  Louis 
Napoleon,  who  admired  him  so  much  that  after  the  coup  d'etat, 
he  made  him  Minister  of  Public  Instruction,  a  post  which  he  re- 
tained till  his  death  four  years  later.  Conscious  of  serious  de- 
ficiencies in  the  UniversUy  system,  Fortoul  endeavored  to  rem- 
edy some  of  them  by  rendering  the  study  of  science  and  liter- 
ature, to  a  certain  point,  equally  obligatory  on  all,  so  that  a 
literature  pupil  should  not  remain  ignorant  of  the  elements  of 
science  and,  on  the  other  hand,  a  science  pupil  should  not  leave 
the  lyceum  without  having  acquired  some  solid  historical  and 
literary  knowledge.  His  new  regulations  for  this  purpose,  hailed 
with  delight  by  some,  were  denounced  by  others  as  impracti- 
cable. His  sudden  death  by  apoplexy,  however,  left  the  problem 
unsolved.  Fortoul's  plans  never  had  a  fair  opportunity  of  being 
tested  by  actual  experience;  their  short-comings  alone  were 
seen  ;  their  excellences  had  not  time  to  develop  themselves. 
Still  the  patient  and  courageous  efforts  expended  by  this  sincere 
and  enlightened  minister  in  the  difficult  task  of  securing  the 
blessings  of  real  education  for  France  have  not  been  altogether 
useless.  Drawing  is  now  generally  obligatory,  and  the  studies 
of  science  and  literature  keep  together  for  a  few  years. 

Fortoul's  literary  works  are  characterized  by  erudition  and 
elegance ;  his  last.  Art  in  Germany,  is  perhaps  his  best.  A 
laudable  enterprise,  started  during  his  ministry,  A  Complete  Col- 
lection of  the  Popular  Songs  of  France,  had  made  some  progress 
before  it  was  interrupted  by  his  premature  death. 


THE  END. 


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